Open Secrets
by CB Walters
Summary: When Dean turns up at Sam's dorm looking for help with a hunt, Sam hesitantly agrees to help. But as the hunt becomes more intense and dangerous, Sam begins to suspect that Dean might know more about the hunt than he's letting on. Now complete.
1. Prologue

A/N: Just to clarify, the timeline on this fic is when Sam is finishing up his second year of college, during those oh-so-mysterious years when the boys were separated. Now, for all those of you who are as nerdy as I am, I know that the writers have said that it was a mistake in the script when Dean said he hadn't seen Sam for two years (in the pilot), and that it should have been either three or four years. But the fact is that once it's there, it's there, so this fic is my attempt at explaining why Sam and Dean may have been on friendly terms for the first two years of his college and distinctly unfriendly terms for the second two years. With that said, please, enjoy. :)

**Open Secrets**

_Prologue_

A grinding noise rang loud in the silence, compounded by the acoustics of the cave.

"Sam? What is that? Is that him?" asked the little boy.

Sam coughed to clear his throat. He didn't bother to open his eyes. "It's the stone…over the entrance." His voice shook; he was still shivering.

"Should we try to escape?"

Sam cracked his good eye open a sliver and looked at Jordan, whose face reflected trust and optimism: he still believed Sam could get him out of here. Sam closed his eyes slowly and let his head rest against the cave wall behind him.

"Sam?"

He tried to force his eyes all the way open this time, but only one made it; the other was swollen almost completely shut thanks to their recent visitor. Jordan moved closer and peered at him closely.

"Should we try to escape?"

Sam swallowed thickly. "No. We should just stay here."

"For your brother to come?"

Sam nodded, allowing his eyes to slide closed again. "For my brother to come."

Jordan slid down the wall and sat next to Sam. "You're still sure he's gonna come?"

"I'm sure," Sam said, but it was a lie. He wasn't sure. He was tired and cold and sick, and starting to lose hope.

Soon all he'd be left with was his fear.


	2. Chapter 1

**Open Secrets**

Chapter 1

_Four days earlier…_

A loud knock reverberated around the small apartment. Sam looked at the door with a groan. He was so close to finishing his homework, and then he could finally get some sleep. He didn't need a distraction. He glanced at his watch. "Three o'clock?" he said out loud with a groan. "In the morning?" He'd been working even later than he thought.

He rose stiffly, rolling his neck, trying to get the kink out of it. He made a feeble attempt to force some order into his messy mop of hair, on the off chance it was a girl, and then pulled the door open.

But it wasn't a girl. Instead, a man in a leather jacket and stained, ripped jeans lounged against the doorway, clearly about to let loose another round of booming knocks. Sam simply stood and stared for several seconds before recovering enough to say, "Dean?"

"Aw, you still recognize me. I'm touched."

Sam didn't move. He cocked his head in confusion. "Dean, what are you _doing _here?"

"Sammy, where are your manners?" Dean pushed past his brother to check out the inside of the small apartment. "Not a bad place you got here." He left Sam standing, bewildered, in the doorway while he wandered into the kitchen, where Sam's calculus homework was spread all over the table, and then to the small entertainment room where a large portion of the floor space was taken over by a big screen TV. "Dude!" Dean whistled as he examined the behemoth admiringly. "Where'd you get the money for _this_?"

Sam shut the door he was still holding open. "It's not mine. It's one of my roommates'," he answered automatically. Then he realized he should be upset. "And what are you doing here?"

Dean ignored the question. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the dark hallway behind him. "Roomies down there?" Sam noticed he didn't bother to keep his voice down.

"Yes, and they're asleep, and they probably want to stay that way." Sam grabbed his brother's arm and pulled him back into the kitchen. He had finally gotten over the shock of seeing Dean, and now he was ready to start asking his own questions. "For the last time, Dean, what are you doing here? I haven't heard from you in weeks. And the last time we talked, you were somewhere in Indiana. What's going on? Where's Dad?"

Dean flashed his trademark devil-may-care smile and opened the fridge, not even offering the benefit of eye contact. "Are you at least going to offer me a drink or something? Man, you're no fun anymore, Sammy."

"It's Sam," he said for the thousandth time, "and if you want a drink, get it yourself. Now tell me why you're here. I'm not coming back, Dean, so if that's why you're here you can forget it."

"Maybe," Dean said from inside the fridge, "I'm here to say hi to my geeky little brother. Why is there no beer in this fridge? You're in college, right?"

Sam sat heavily into one of the kitchen chairs. "This may shock you, but not everyone drinks. And besides that, I'm only twenty years old." Based on Dean's blank expression, Sam realized that a little more explanation was necessary. "And it's illegal to drink 'til you're twenty-one."

"No excuse." Dean pulled out a can of Coke and gazed at it with a look of mild disgust. He put the unopened can on the table and sat down in the chair across from Sam's homework. "You miss hunting, Sam?"

"No," Sam said defiantly.

Possibly Dean saw through the lie. He opened the can loudly and waved a hand dismissively. "Yeah, whatever. Listen, I need your help. You can take a few days off school, right?"

"Um, no. I have a life now, Dean. I have classes and a job, and friends here. I can't just drop everything."

Dean didn't respond for a moment, just watched as the younger Winchester pulled his pencil out of the textbook and started spinning it between his fingers.

"I've been thinking lately," Dean said.

Under his breath, Sam muttered, "I'll notify the President. I'm sure he'll want to institute a national holiday."

Dean covered a small smile by taking a mouthful of the Coke. It was good to know he could still predict all of Sam's comebacks. "I'm going on a hunting trip."

Sam didn't bother trying to disguise a scornful chuckle. "Alone? Yeah, 'cuz Dad'll go for that."

Dean didn't respond, toying with the top of the can. Sam closed his eyes as realization hit. He shook his head ruefully. "And that's why you're here. You want me to go with you."

"Look, I know Dad's not going to like it. But I've got a plan that'll prove to him that I can handle it. There's a job near Lake Tahoe. Caleb told me about it. I was supposed to tell Dad so we could go check it out, but I didn't. I'm going to take care of it myself."

Sam sat in silence for several minutes, trying to gather his thoughts. "Ok, great plan, genius. But how are you going to get there? How are you going to ditch Dad for that long? How are you going to get at the weapons without him knowing?"

"I'm not an idiot, you know."

Sam just stared at his brother, clearly ready to debate the point. As if he could read Sam's thoughts, Dean scowled. "Don't worry about it. I've got it all planned out, and," he paused for effect, "a new set of wheels."

Despite himself, Sam's curiosity was peaked. He swallowed a retort and motioned for Dean to continue.

"See, what you don't know is that last week Dad gave me an awesome birthday present."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Ok, A) Dad has never given you a birthday gift, and B) your birthday was what, three months ago?"

"Doesn't matter, because I am now the proud owner of a shiny black '67 Chevy Impala, complete with an arsenal hidden in the trunk."

"You're lying. Dad would never give up his car."

Dean shook his head. "Telling the truth, I swear. Dad bought this big ol' truck. Got tired of trying to keep the Impala in good repair. He was going to just sell it, but I convinced him to keep it."

Sam sighed. "Okay, so you have a way to get out of there. But I'm just not getting the why. I know you, Dean, and you never break Dad's rules, no matter how asinine they are."

"Asinine? Wow, good to see the college education is paying off."

Sam closed his eyes slowly, shaking his head. "So that's what this is about?" He paused, giving Dean a chance to retort, or offer an alternative, but he didn't. Sam stood angrily and tossed his pencil against the wall. "You're pissed because I left, is that it? Just tell me why you're doing this. You're breaking Dad's biggest rules, Dean. Not to mention the fact that you're talking to me, the family freak, the traitor. Dad's going to just love that," he added bitterly.

"Sam…" Dean started, sounding very much like an exasperated parent. "This isn't about you, Sam! Don't you get it? This is about _me. _This is _my_ big chance." He paused and rubbed the back of his neck, allowing the burst of anger to dissipate. He took a breath and let it out slowly, turning back to face his brother. "I've got a window of opportunity here. Dad busted his leg on our last job, so he's holed up for awhile. I'm not an idiot. I'm not going without backup. All you gotta do is come with me, make sure I don't get killed, and Dad can find out the hard way that I'm old enough for this kind of stuff."

Sam gave his brother a tired look. "Dean, look around. I have a life now. A real life. With school and a job. You can just pick up and go wherever you want, whenever you want. But I have responsibilities. You know? Responsibilities?"

Dean's eyes deadened, and Sam knew he'd hit a nerve. Any trace of a grin was gone from his brother's face, his lips forming a hard line. "You're going to talk to me about responsibilities?" Dean waited just long enough for Sam's face to reflect guilt instead of anger. "You owe me this."

And Sam knew it was true. His lips thinned as he realized that all things considered, Dean's request was actually pretty conservative. "You know, if Dad found out, he'd be furious. If he even found out you were here he'd be furious. And you know he's eventually going to find out."

Dean shrugged. "You never cared too much about that before."

Sam bristled, but didn't say anything. You couldn't argue with the truth. He started collecting his calculus homework. "Look, I've got a test tomorrow morning and a class at three. I can't miss them."

Dean tried to hide a flash of disappointment, but failed. "Sure, yeah, I understand." He made a brave attempt at his usual charming smile. "School's, uh, important."

"No, Dean…" Sam sighed, thinking, _I can't believe I'm doing this._ "I'll go with you, but we have to wait to leave till after my class tomorrow. It's a long weekend, so there are no classes Monday or Tuesday, but we have to be back in time for classes Wednesday."

"Fine. Tomorrow afternoon." And to Sam's surprise, Dean didn't offer a smart aleck remark or even a victorious grin. Instead, he stared off into space for a moment with a strange, sad look on his face that Sam could rarely remember seeing there before. It looked like…resignation. But the look was gone so quickly that Sam wondered if he'd imagined it.

Dean shook himself out of his reverie and glanced up at Sam. "Listen, can I crash on the couch or the floor or something?"

"Yeah, sure." Sam stood, shouldered his backpack and headed down the narrow hallway. At the last second he remembered something and turned back. "Just don't go spreading salt everywhere and carving symbols into the doors, okay? People…well, normal people, anyway, give you strange looks when you do that. I've already set up enough wards. We're safe."

Dean shrugged noncommittally. Knowing his brother's penchant for over-protectiveness, Sam glared. "I mean it, Dean."

"Yeah, whatever." Dean turned his back, and Sam knew that was the end of the conversation. With a sigh, Sam gave up, knowing full well that when he woke up the next morning he'd have to explain the piles of salt to his roommates.

* * *

A/N: Hey y'all! I'm so glad you made it to the end of this first chapter. This is my first attempt at a multichapter fic, so any feedback you can give me (good or bad) will help so much as I continue to write. Thanks!!

Also, I really owe a big thanks to all my awesome friends who spent way too much time helping me perfect this, especially to spinners0end, who should be given a trophy for the freakishly large amount of fiction I've forced her to read, and to her awesome little sister, whose encouragement is always useful and entertaining. :)


	3. Chapter 2

**Open Secrets**

Chapter 2

Sam thumbed through a thin sheaf of papers as the Impala hurtled down the back road. It was difficult to concentrate, partly because Dean's research was spotty at best, and partly because Dean was singing along at full blast with the radio. Sam was doing his best to keep his annoyance in check. After all, he hadn't really spent time with Dean in two years, and he didn't want to spend the whole weekend fighting. He bit down on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from making any comment as Dean started slapping out the rhythm of the percussion on the steering wheel.

The song finally ended and an ad came on, so Sam took the opportunity to lean over and turn the radio down.

"So we've got two disappearances and one death in the last two months, all in the same 20 square miles of forest area."

"Yup."

Sam shuffled through the disorganized mass of papers. "The police report blames a…mountain lion for the death of forty-two-year-old Angus Haden."

"Yup."

"And the two disappearances happened two months and twenty miles apart. One was a twenty-five-year-old woman named Julie Showerman. The second was a boy, seven years old, named—," Sam consulted the research. "Jordan Burke."

"Uh-huh."

Sam shook his head. "Dean, are you serious? I mean, I don't see how this could possibly be something supernatural. They don't even seem connected."

Dean shrugged. "We've investigated for less."

"You always say that," Sam said, exasperation creeping into his voice. "Since we were kids, every time Dad or I said the job didn't look like our kind of gig, you've said that we've investigated for less. When have we ever investigated for less?"

Dean scratched the back of his head as he searched his memory. "Huh, can't really think of any. But this one, this is a sure thing. Besides, Caleb clued me into it, remember?"

"If that were the only reassurance I had, I'd make you turn around and take me back home. But luckily for you, I did some of my own research in between classes today. I looked into the history of the area, and it turns out there have been attacks like this in the past."

For a moment Dean looked shocked, and almost angry. "Why would you do that? I already took care of it."

Sam missed the look as he was reaching into his backpack to remove his own, much more organized, stack of papers, but he definitely caught the tone of his brother's voice. "What's your problem? I just wanted to get a head start on things."

"You shouldn't have done that."

"It may have been awhile since I've been on a hunt, but I remember how things work. We talk to the people who are involved, we do research on the area, see if it's ever happened before, and then we figure out how to kill whatever it is. Now what's your big problem?"

"Nothing," Dean responded sullenly.

Sam considered taking the opportunity to figure out what was bothering his brother, but decided to just leave it alone. Dean rarely shared his feelings, and if he was upset, he seldom explained why. That was just the way Dean was.

"Okay then. So almost twenty years ago there was another series of attacks. Over a period of six months, there were ten disappearances in the same twenty mile area. Seven of them were confirmed dead. Five of those were blamed on animal attacks, the other two had inconclusive causes of death."

"What about the other three? The ones that weren't confirmed dead?"

Sam checked through his research. "Uh…two people, James and Michelle Snow, were actually the first ones to go missing. They were found over a week later, apparently lost in the woods around the area. They were a newlywed couple that came to stay at the lodge. They just disappeared one night and a friend of theirs found them out in the woods. Police reports say that the experience left both with a severe case of post-traumatic stress disorder, possibly brought on from a mixture of exposure and malnutrition."

Dean snorted. "Right."

Sam looked up. "What do you mean, right?"

"Aw, come on, Sammy. Those people don't have PTSD! They saw something, I bet you anything."

"Maybe," Sam conceded. "But what?"

Dean shrugged. "You're the one that went and did all the research, you tell me. They must have said something that sounded a little off."

"Well, if they did, it's not mentioned in the police report."

Dean put on a mock grimace. "Only out of the game a couple of years, and already you're messing up the job. What about the last one?"

"Huh?"

"Ten disappearances, seven fatalities, two found. That leaves one more. I am capable of _some_ math."

"Oh, right. Sorry. The last one is still missing." There was more shuffling as Sam searched for the right paper. "A boy. He was the last one to go missing, just before the newlyweds were found. He was two and a half years old at the time of his disappearance." Sam paused to check his map. "You need to take a right in about a quarter mile. You have to take a dirt road for a half mile to get to the lodge."

Dean nodded absentmindedly, then asked casually, "Was there a name?"

Sam, still involved in his article, didn't look up. "For the dirt road?"

"No, the kid."

"Oh. Yeah, it's um…Matthew Smith. Why?"

Dean shrugged, making the turn onto the dirt road. "No reason."

i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i

"You're kidding, right?"

Dean glanced up from the trunk of the Impala, where he was loading up an old army duffel bag with a few weapons. "What am I kidding about?"

Sam waved the fake ID in Dean's face. "This is one of your lame jokes, right?"

Dean slammed the trunk shut and hefted the bag over a shoulder. "Actually, I thought it was one of my more brilliant ideas. I don't see what's wrong with it."

Sam picked up his own bag and followed his brother, their shoes crunching in the gravel parking lot. "Well, for one thing, you used my senior picture. It's two years old! And for another, we're posing as film producers? Come on, that'll never work. You _know_ that never works. When you say you're a film producer, all people care about is trying to get on camera. They'll make anything up. They won't tell the truth, Dean, and you know it, that's why Dad always had us be cops or FBI agents—" his mouth snapped closed suddenly, as if the unexpected realization that he agreed with his father about something had forced it shut.

Dean's mouth twitched. "I had to get the ID made ahead of time, and your senior picture was the only one I could find. It's recent enough, no one's going to look that closely. Just tell them you haven't had a haircut since you were seventeen, they'll buy that." He smiled to show that he was joking. Mostly. "And besides, the hot chick at the check-in desk is going to be way more interested in talking to me—er, um, us—if she thinks I can get her on TV. So just let me handle all the talking in here, ok, kiddo?"

He pushed the door open and both brothers stepped through, blinking in the artificial light. Sam looked around, taking in the cabin-like set up of the entryway, the mounted heads of deer and elk, the small souvenir shop, and finally, the lone human being working the counter—a hunched, craggy man who appeared to be at least nine hundred years old.

"Aw, man, no way. I changed my mind, you do the talking," Dean whispered.

Sam swallowed a chuckle. "No, no, you insisted."

The man behind the counter grinned toothily. His skin was weathered and creased, leathered from a lifetime under the sun. The grin made the lines in his face deepen. "What can I do for you boys?" he asked.

When Dean just grimaced in disappointment, Sam stepped forward. "Hi, I'm Sam Walsh, and this is my brother Dean."

The man stuck out a trembling right hand, which Sam shook. "My name is David Williams, and I run this lodge. We're happy to have ya, Sam. I guess you two need a room?"

"Until Tuesday, please."

The man turned to his computer, squinting at the screen with dim eyes as he carefully poked at the keyboard with one finger. "So which one are ya?"

Not sure he had heard right, Sam leaned in a bit. "Pardon?"

"This far into the mountain, we only get two types: hikers and hunters. So which one are ya?"

Dean tried to hide a smile behind a cough. Hunters. Right. Sam shot him a murderous glare, so the elder Winchester composed his face and stepped forward as the old man continued to clack away at the keys, one letter at a time. "Actually, sir, we're filmmakers. We're doing a documentary."

"Oh?" the old man said, clearly distracted. He sighed and backed away from the computer. "Blast these machines! I never can read those tiny little letters. Let me get my granddaughter down here, she can help you better than I can." He hobbled over to the wooden staircase behind the counter. "Jenna!"

Dean turned to Sam, a pleased grin on his face. "Ready to watch some magic?"

Sam rolled his eyes as the man called a second time. A moment later, a young woman appeared at the top of the staircase. Sam guessed she was a little older than Dean, maybe twenty-six or twenty-seven. She was very pretty, with long, sleek dark hair, and wide blue eyes, but to Sam she looked tired, even haggard. She put on a friendly smile that didn't reach her eyes as she moved behind the counter. Her grandfather indicated the two Winchesters. "These boys are filmmakers, come to stay for a few days. Can you get their information, please?"

She smiled indulgently as her grandfather hobbled to a back room. "Sorry about Granddad," she said to Dean. "He's starting to get on in years, but he just can't stand to give up this lodge."

"That's all right. Your grandfather seems like a great guy," Dean said, passing over a credit card and flashing a disarming smile. Sam tried not to scoff as Dean laid on the charm thick.

Jenna quickly input Dean's information and handed him two small brass keys. "You'll be in room 17. Go out that side door and follow the building around the corner. You can't miss it."

"Well, thank you very much for you help. Maybe we'll see you around, you know, while we're working on our film," Dean said with a grin.

She returned the smile, though it seemed a bit forced. "Yeah, maybe."

Sam could tell that she just wasn't interested, and tried to steer his brother away, but as usual, Dean was being as far from subtle as it was possible to get. "Actually," he said, leaning into the desk a little, "maybe you could help us with that. You know anyone we could interview?"

"Um," she said, glancing over her shoulder at the staircase. She clearly wanted to escape but was too polite to not answer the question. "What kind of a film is it?"

Dean flashed Sam a smile that clearly read, _jackpot! _"It's a documentary about all the weird stuff around here. Hey," Dean added, as if he'd just thought of it, "maybe we could interview you. I mean, if you know anything about all the strange disappearances…here…" his voice trailed off as Jenna's smile faded.

"Cuz, I mean," Dean tried to recover, "a woman and a little boy both went missing, and it's all really strange…"

Jenna exploded into very loud sobs before turning and running up the stairs behind her.

Dean stared up the steps, his expression quizzical, as if learning an interesting new fact. He stuck his hands in his pockets. "Huh. Don't think I've ever had quite that effect on a woman before."

"Don't kid yourself," Sam replied softly as a tall dark-haired man came out of the back room. The stranger looked up the stairs, and yelled, "Jenna?"

When no answer came, he looked over at Sam and Dean. "Did you guys see my wife go up the stairs a minute ago?"

"Your wife?" Dean choked, his voice a little higher than normal.

"Oh, I'm sorry," the man said. "I'm Jason Burke."

Sam stuck out his hand. "I'm Sam, and this," he paused as he glanced at Dean, who looked like he was choking on his own tongue, "is my brother Dean."

"Sorry," Jason sighed, "but they tend to get a lot of regulars here. Jenna knows them all, having grown up here, but I've only been here a few times, so I just assume everyone knows her. My fault. I apologize. It's been a very stressful week."

Sam offered a polite smile. "That's all right. Good luck."

He turned and exited through the door Jenna had indicated, Dean following in his wake. The moment they were out the door, Dean smacked his hand against his forehead. "Always check the wedding ring!" he said to himself. Then he turned to his brother. "You owe me! You let me just make a fool of myself."

"More than that, you idiot," Sam said, trying to keep his voice down. "Didn't you catch the last name? Their son must be the little boy that went missing."

Dean's lip pulled up. "Oh."

"Yeah, 'oh.' Now we're never going to be able to talk to them. You have no sensitivity, you know that? TV producers…"

i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!

The next day dawned cold and gray, with the smell of rain on the air. Sam woke before Dean did, quietly got up and dressed, and walked out to the lodge's headquarters to get some breakfast. He got back into the room just as the first big raindrops started to splat down. He worked to put the key into the door handle, trying to juggle two cups of coffee, a bag full of hot muffins, and a newspaper. Finally successful, he stumbled into the room. Dean was sitting at the small table, talking quietly on his cell phone. When he glanced up and saw Sam his conversation suddenly became much louder.

"Yup, we're both here, we're safe, it'll only take a few days." A pause. "Yeah, thanks. I will. I'll call you when we're finishing up. Bye."

Dean snapped the phone shut and grabbed one of the cups of coffee, taking too big of a gulp and wincing when it burnt his tongue.

"Who was that?" Sam asked suspiciously.

"Just Caleb."

"Caleb, huh? Since when is he all interested in checking up on you and Dad?"

Dean shrugged, grabbing the bag of muffins and pulling one out. "I don't know."

"He doesn't know I'm here, right? He thinks it's you and Dad? Cuz if he knows I'm here you know it'll get back to Dad."

"He doesn't know."

"Well, then why is he calling?"

"Maybe Pastor Jim asked him to, how should I know? Please tell me you didn't get blueberry. I hate blueberry."

"The blueberry is mine. Yours is chocolate chip, I think." He paused, not sure he believed his brother. Both of them had grown up lying, after all. Dean could carry a fib farther than anyone Sam knew. And yet, why would he be lying? Sam decided to drop it, feeling a little foolish for mistrusting his brother. "Did you see the news?"

Dean shrugged. "I just woke up."

Sam brandished a local newspaper, which bore the headline, "Local Woman's Body Recovered."

"It's Julie Showerman, the one that went missing almost two months ago. They blame her death on an animal attack," Sam said. "And look at this."

A second article's headline read, "Two More Missing, Police Baffled."

"In this same twenty square miles?" Dean asked around a mouthful of muffin.

"Yup, another little kid and an older man." Sam grimaced as Dean successfully shoved an entire muffin in his mouth, losing chocolate chips and crumbs along the way. "Listen, we gotta pick up the pace."

"Or more people are going to die."

Sam shuffled a little guiltily. "Well, that too, but remember, I have to be back to school Wednesday morning."

Dean put on the fake smile he always wore when he was trying to cover the fact that he was scared or hurt. "Right, that whole school thing. So what's our next move?"

"Talk to the couple that survived twenty years ago? I've got a current address, it's not far from here."

"Sounds good, Sammy."

"It's _Sam_."

i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!

The rain was coming down in silver sheets by the time they left the lodge. They raced to the car, feet splashing in muddy puddles. Dean fumbled with the keys, trying to open the lock. Sam hunched over as cold water soaked his hair and dripped down his shirt.

"You want to hurry up?" Sam shouted over the wind and the rain.

"I'm working on it!" Dean yelled back, clearly irritated that his beloved car was betraying him.

Sam stared off into the thick trees surrounding the parking lot, imagining just how much drier it must be underneath all those leaves. Suddenly, a shape—a shadow—moved in the undergrowth, maybe 50 yards away. It stood for a moment in the gloom, then seemed to melt behind a tree. Sam started, eyes straining in the darkness. There was nothing there, nothing to see. Had he imagined it?

"I got it!" Dean shouted, yanking the door open and scrambling inside. He reached across the seats and unlocked Sam's door before pulling his own door closed. Sam got inside more slowly, his hair dripping water onto his already soaked clothes.

"Sometimes the locks stick in when it rains. I've been meaning to fix it…"

"Uh-huh," Sam said vaguely. _Had _he imagined it? Could it have been a person? It had seemed too tall for a man, but with the rain and the distance…

"What are you looking at?" Dean was peering intently at the spot where Sam was staring.

Sam shook his head to clear it, sending water flying. "Thought I saw something. It's nothing."

"Oookay. Well, you want to join me in the present? See if we can figure out what we're dealing with?"

"Right." Sam cleared his throat. "What are some possibilities?"

"Malevolent spirit."

"Could be. Although, doesn't seem right. The patterns are too loose. Ghosts are pretty strict."

"Demon?"

"Could be."

"Phantom attacker?"

"That's a little more likely, but I'm guessing it's something corporeal. All the deaths were animalistic in nature."

Dean paused as he made the turn onto the main road. "Wendigo?"

"Too far south and west."

"Black dog? Hellhound?"

Sam thought it over. "Or a skinwalker?"

Dean's face lit up. "Maybe it's a werewolf!"

"Nah," said Sam. "Lunar cycle's wrong, and all the victims had their hearts."

"Oh, yeah," said Dean, not bothering to hide his disappointment.

"We need more info," Sam finally decided as he leafed through his notes. "We just don't know enough to narrow it down."

"We'll know more soon enough," Dean said. "We'll be there in a few minutes."

Sam had been right. The Snows lived fairly close to the lodge. Their home was a small cabin, set far back into the trees. Scattered along the side of the road near their drive were handmade wooden signs, which bore messages like, "Don't go into the woods! A monster resides there!" and "The forest isn't safe! Don't say we didn't warn you!"

"Did we just arrive in crazy land?" Dean muttered. He followed the narrow dirt drive to a small clearing where a beat up old Jeep was parked haphazardly. Rusted and filthy, it didn't look like it had been used in years. The front porch was home to a stack of half-finished wooden signs, and one very large sign that read, "BEWARE THE BEAST IN THE FOREST!"

Dean stopped the Impala and turned off the engine but made no move toward opening the door.

"Okay, Mr. Research. What do we know about these people? Because, frankly? They look like they're going to be unhelpful."

Sam shrugged. "I don't know a lot, to be honest. The wife is a pretty boring story, I guess. She grew up in Colorado, studied Interior Design at UCLA, and met James there. The husband is interesting though. He used to be a cop, but he wasn't very good at it. Just before he married Michelle, he was involved in some big scandal and he almost lost his badge. After their honeymoon, he turned it in himself rather than have to deal with it."

"Huh," Dean said. "Interesting. What was the scandal?"

"Well," Sam said, "from what I can figure, James was some low-ranked cop keeping bystanders away from a homicide crime scene, and he thought this might be his chance to get his big break. He planted evidence at the scene of the crime and then "discovered" it, helping detectives to lead him right to the guilty party."

Dean paused. "You figured all that out from police reports?"

"Well, it wasn't all written out like that. I mean, James swears he didn't do it, and the detective swears he did, but from all the police reports, it sure looks like he was driven enough for it, and…what?" he stopped; Dean was staring at him with a slightly sickened expression.

"Dude," Dean said solemnly. "You're such a freak. You're at college. Go chase girls and go to parties. You're embarrassing me with all this…being smart stuff."

Sam muttered something under his breath, but Dean didn't pursue it.

"So…he's not a cop anymore, right?" Dean finally asked.

"No, now he leads hunting parties. You know, those guided moose hunt kind of things."

Dean fidgeted. "So let me sum up. We're going to go interview a crazy woman, and her husband, a guy who was trained as a cop and now carries around big guns for a living."

Sam scratched at the back of his head. "Uh, yeah, I guess."

"Great. Uh, Sam? You knock on the door."

"Why should I?"

"Cuz I'm older and I say so."

"You're scared."

Dean fidgeted a bit. "No. Why, are you?"

"No. No, of course not."

"Then knock on the door."

Dean got out of the car, staring Sam down. Sam grumbled and slammed his door. "Fine." He defiantly marched up to the door, knocked once, waited a beat, and then backed away. "Well, looks like no one's home. Let's go."

But as he took his first step forward, he heard an odd clicking noise. He cocked his head and listened closely as the noise repeated several times. It sounded like a lock being turned. The door opened a crack. Sam caught a glimpse of blue eyes and flyaway hair before he heard the gravelly voice.

"What do you want?" the woman said.

Dean forcibly pushed Sam in front of the door.

"Hi, Mrs. Snow." Sam cleared his throat. "Sorry to bother you, but we're—"

"If you're cops, you can turn right around and go back where you came from. Me and my husband didn't have anything to do with those disappearances, and I already told you who did, but no one believes us. So go away!"

Sam took a step back, more than happy to oblige, but Dean grabbed his collar.

"Actually, ma'am," Dean said, smiling tolerantly. "We're TV producers. I'm Dean, and this is my brother, Sam. We want to make a documentary about the strange disappearances around here. We thought you and your husband might have a—er—unique view."

The door opened a bit wider. Sam could see her face now. Her hair was blonde, streaked liberally with gray, her face prematurely lined. Sam knew from the police reports that she was 47 years old, but she looked closer to 60.

Gray-blue eyes surveyed the boys. "You're doing a documentary about the Thing?"

"Yes, ma'am," Dean said without missing a beat.

"You'll warn people to stay away?"

"That's the whole purpose of the documentary, ma'am."

The door finally opened wide enough to admit Sam and Dean. A grin split the woman's lined face. "They've finally come to their senses! We've been trying to convince them to do this for years! Well, don't stand there gawking, come in."

She ushered them in, and when they were both inside, she took a spray bottle off of a nearby shelf. She sprayed liberally outside the door. Her eyes shifted warily for a moment, then she slammed the door and quickly closed no less than five separate locks. Sam glanced at Dean, by now seriously concerned for the woman's sanity.

She must have caught the look, because she held up the bottle. "He doesn't seem to like the smell of lemons. We spray this every day. Sometimes he comes to the edge of the woods, but he never goes past there." She glanced at her heavily padlocked door. She turned to Dean and whispered conspiratorially, "And he has a hard time with locks."

"Good to know," Dean said, somehow managing to keep his tone level.

They followed her to a small sitting room, where she invited them to sit down. She brought large glasses of lemonade in from the kitchen. Dean took a large gulp, but Sam only eyed his glass suspiciously. He had a feeling the liquid was a little low on sugar, and judging by Dean's watering eyes, he was right.

"So how can I help you?" she asked.

"What can you tell us about the…," Sam paused, looking for the right word.

"The Thing?" Mrs. Snow asked. Something in her voice capitalized the word.

"Yeah," Sam said, pulling out a notepad. In his experience, people generally needed a good deal of prodding to share the type of experience they had been raised to believe was impossible, but Mrs. Snow seemed not to have the same inhibitions as most victims of the supernatural.

"It happened almost twenty years ago, the first time," she started without any further provocation. "My husband, James, and I were hiking one evening, out on the path that leads from the lodge down there, the one David Williams owns."

Sam nodded to show he knew where it was. Dean was staring out the window, starting to look a little bored.

"Anyway," she continued. "We got lost. We were out there for days. We tried to find the path again, or the lodge, but we never could. Then James and I got separated; he thought he'd heard the river, but he didn't want to lose our place, so I stayed and he went to look for the river. I waited for him for hours, but he never came back."

Mrs. Snow nervously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "And then the Thing came. It up behind me, hit me on the head. It knocked me out, and when I woke up, I was in a cave, underground. The only way out was this narrow tunnel, and the Thing would sit there at the entrance, so I couldn't get out."

"What happened?" Sam asked kindly. "How did you escape?"

Her eyebrows knitted. "Well, that was the strange part. Every day, the Thing would get up and just walk away. The first time it happened, I thought that it was my big chance, so I got out of there and ran away, but he caught up to me and dragged me back. Everyday, he'd let me get a little further away, but he'd always catch me."

"Which still doesn't explain how you got away," Dean pointed out abruptly.

Sam glared at Dean, not surprised at his lack of subtlety, but not about to let the moment pass unpunished either.

"What Dean means to say," Sam said, still glaring at his brother, "is that we're very interested to know how you finally managed to get out."

"Oh," she said. "Well, one day, I think it must have been nearly a week after I'd been captured, the Thing got up, just like always, but when I tried to escape, James was there, and we ran away before the Thing caught up to us. Later that day, one of our friends found us out in the woods. There had been search parties out looking for us, see."

"I see," Sam said, making notes on his pad of paper. "And can you tell us what the creature looked like?"

Mrs. Snow shuddered slightly. "He was—horrible. He had hair that was matted and dark. And he had these terrible yellow eyes. Unnatural eyes, you know? And he had long black claws. That's how he kills them. That's why it looks like an animal attack."

Sam looked significantly at Dean. Was it possible that they had found the key so early in their investigation? But Dean looked anything but excited. Instead, he looked vaguely skeptical.

Sam brought his attention back to the woman. "Anything else?"

"This smell sort of hung on him, like old meat. And he moved like a man, but he was too tall. Nearly eight feet."

For an instant, Sam's mind swept back to the moment he had been sure there was a shape in the forest. Could it be...

"Is that it, then?" Dean asked in a bored tone. Sam could tell he was already looking to finish the interview.

She paused, surveying the boys warily. "You believe me, don't you?"

"Of course," Sam soothed.

"Good," she said. "People need to understand. This Thing, it's mean, but it's smart and resourceful. We don't need another Angus."

For the first time, Dean glanced up. "Angus?"

"Angus was James' best friend. He was the one that found us, out in the forest that day. He was the only one who didn't give up hope. He was out there every day looking for us, even after everyone else gave up." She chuckled as she remembered it. "He even cut his leg open—got a massive scar on his knee. He always blamed James for that scar." A regretful smile crossed her face. "He never believed us. We always told him not to go in the forest, but he thought we'd gone crazy, just like everyone else. If he had listened to us, he'd still be alive today."

"What makes you say that, Mrs. Snow?" Dean asked.

She narrowed her eyes, sizing him up. "Well," she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, "the Thing got him."

There was a brief, tense silence in which Sam was sure he could hear his heart beating. Then a door upstairs slammed closed, and they all jumped.

"Michelle?" a voice yelled.

Sam exhaled as Mrs. Snow answered, "Down here!"

Creaking footfalls preceded the man's entrance. He entered the room, looking first from Dean to Sam. He was a big man, with graying hair and a lined face. Like his wife, he looked like he had aged prematurely. He didn't seem to have handled their supernatural ordeal as well as his wife had: his face radiated suspicion where hers radiated kindness.

The man didn't introduce himself or make any effort to come forward and shake hands. Instead, he surveyed the boys intensely, as if memorizing them. His gaze rested on Sam's face for a moment, and he cocked his head curiously. Sam turned away uncomfortably.

"Okay," Dean said in the awkward silence. "I think it's about time for us to get out of your way."

Dean stood, and Sam followed his brother's example. They walked quickly to the door, followed by Mr. Snow.

"That your car?" he said in a gravelly voice.

Dean paused halfway across the front yard and turned slightly to address the man. "Yeah."

"What is it, a '67?"

"Yeah."

Mr. Snow nodded and turned back into the house without another word, slamming the door behind him.

i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i

"So now we've got a description," Sam said. "This should help us narrow down the list of possibilities."

"Description? List of possibilities?"

They were almost back to the lodge. Dean was driving far too fast on the slippery road, his vision obscured by the setting sun. The Impala splashed down the rain-soaked street, hitting water-filled potholes at full speed. Something in Dean's voice made Sam sure that he would be on the receiving end of a very unkind look right now if Dean's full concentration hadn't been required to keep them on the road.

"That was a huge waste of time," Dean said disdainfully. "That crazy old woman just gave us a classic description of Bigfoot. It's all a load of crap. And lemon juice? What evil creature was ever repelled by lemon juice? She doesn't know anything."

"Maybe she just didn't understand what she saw, so she tried to explain it in a way that made sense."

"In that case, it sounds like a wendigo. Come on, a creature that takes victims and sticks 'em in a cave underground?"

"We're in the wrong place, Dean. They're further east, remember? And have you ever heard of a hairy wendigo?"

"Maybe," Dean said, with just a touch of frustration, "she's adding stuff to her story so that people will _think_ she's talking about Bigfoot."

"Wendigos eat people, they don't play with them. Besides, where's the proof that Bigfoot doesn't exist?"

This time, Dean risked the danger, and glanced away from the road, staring at his brother as if he had never seen him before.

"Sam. I beg of you. Not this again. They're not real."

"How do you know? We deal with things all the time that people think don't really exist."

"There are a lot of things out there that exist that most people don't believe in: ghosts, demons, werewolves. But there are a lot of things out there that people just made up. They're just stories. There's no such thing as unicorns or mermaids or the Loch Ness monster or the Bermuda Triangle. And there's no such thing as Bigfoot. Dad must have said that a million times."

Sam rolled that over in his mind. "Maybe they're just really rare, or they're normally not harmful. Or maybe this is the only one. And what about them being friends with Angus Haden? The _first victim_ this time around?"

"Coincidence."

"When is it ever coincidence? There's a connection there, Dean."

"Wow. Sam. Drop it. You can never admit when you're wrong, you know that?"

Sam bristled. "I can admit when I'm wrong. I just…have a gut feeling on this."

Dean turned the car down the dirt road. "No, you're just wrong."

"Call Caleb," Sam said on sudden inspiration. "Maybe he's heard of a creature that looks like that."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because he'll make some stupid joke about hunting a Wookiee and he'll call me Han Solo for the rest of my life."

Sam grinned, knowing this was probably a fair prediction. "Well, what about Bobby? He never asks too many questions. Or maybe Pastor Jim. He knows every urban legend in the US."

Dean took the turn into the parking lot quite a bit faster than was necessary, forcing Sam to quickly grip the edge of the doorframe or risk flying through the windshield. Dean braked hard and brought the car to a rough stop.

"Nice, Dean. Very mature."

Dean shifted in his seat. "We're not calling anyone. We don't need help. We can do this on our own. But I swear Sammy, if you suggest one more time that we're hunting Bigfoot, I will call all your roommates back at school and tell them about that old Superman cape you wore until you were nine. And then I'll mail them the pictures of you in it."

Sam swallowed hard. Maybe the Bigfoot theory would go on a back burner for a while.

i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!

"So where do we go from here?" Dean said as they neared their room.

Distractedly, Sam shrugged. He was flipping through the file he'd put together on the list of victims. If their star witness really was as crazy as Dean thought she was, then he needed to find a new lead.

"Well, I say we drop our stuff and get some food." Dean put the key into the lock and stepped into the room. "What do you think?"

Sam dropped his backpack on the floor and folded his lanky form into the chair next to the table. "Sure, yeah."

"We can ask the lodge owner guy where the nearest restaurant is," Dean said.

"Uh-huh."

Sam pulled out the police reports of the deaths from twenty years ago. The death of Ana Rodriguez had been blamed on an animal attack. She was a 40-year-old woman from Los Angeles who had come to Nevada and stayed in a hotel in Carson City. And then, even though she had stayed in town, she was killed in this area of the woods. Sam frowned, looking for another police report. He quickly found what he was looking for, and felt his frown deepen. The third victim, Christian Lane, was also from Los Angeles. However, the next several were from cities all over Colorado, California, and Nevada.

Was it merely coincidence that the first three victims, including James and Michelle Snow, were all from LA? And if there was a pattern, why did it break so soon?

"Sam!"

Sam looked up, surprised. Dean was giving him an exasperated look. Sam realized he hadn't been paying attention to a word Dean was saying. "What?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Can we please go?

"Yeah, sure," Sam said, a little annoyed at Dean's impatience. "Sorry."

"Man, do you pay attention to anything while you're reading?" Dean said, watching as Sam stowed his folder in his backpack. Sam responded with a glare.

"You're not this bad at school, are you?" Dean continued. "It's a wonder you're still alive, the way you just zone out."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah. I'm a walking miracle. I'm hungry, can we go?"

Dean checked the salt lines. "If you're finally ready."

Sam leaned against the outside wall, staring off into the woods while Dean locked the door. Had he imagined the shape in the woods earlier? Was Dean right? Or was it really so unlikely that some Bigfoot-like creature was roaming the woods?

Sam walked toward the edge of the trees. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but if there was a creature, it had to be leaving some kind of evidence behind.

"Sam, what are you doing? Let's go. Ten seconds ago you were starving, remember?"

Dean was behind him, following him into the trees.

"I'm just looking." Sam moved to the left, further away from the lodge, until he was fairly certain he was standing where he had seen the shape. Or thought he had seen it, anyway. It was difficult to tell in the dimming light. His eyes swept the ground, squinting.

"Hey Dean, look at this," Sam said, crouching down.

Dean moved over, looking over Sam's shoulder. "Wow, congratulations. You've discovered a puddle."

"It looks like a footprint."

Dean stood wearily. "It's not a footprint, because we're not hunting Bigfoot. And besides, it's been raining all day. Any footprints that might be here would have been washed away."

"Well, then how do you explain this?" Sam pointed at a tree right next to the suspicious-looking puddle. There were four long vertical scratches in the bark, about ten feet up. Dean followed his brother, staring at the scratches.

"They're, uh…scratches. From a knife maybe."

"Yeah, maybe if Wolverine lives in this forest, and only if he's got a ten foot ladder."

"Wolverine's got _three_ claws, genius," Dean said sarcastically.

"Now who can't admit they're wrong? What else could have possibly made those marks, Dean?"

"Skinwalker," Dean said, clearly fumbling for an answer.

Sam sighed and gave up for the moment, heading toward the lodge.

Dean shrugged deeper into his jacket and followed Sam. "How did you even know where to look? You went right to that tree."

Sam scratched the back of his head, trying to look nonchalant. "Uh, no reason. Just a hunch."

Dean didn't respond. Even without seeing his face, Sam could tell Dean didn't believe his story. No matter how good he had gotten at lying over the years, Sam still couldn't pull a fast one past his brother.

"We'll worry about it later," Dean said as they hit the gravel parking lot. "We just need another lead, that's all."

"Maybe we should ask David Williams," Sam suggested.

"The lodge owner? No way," Dean said, moving past Sam to take the lead. "He's gonna be one of those chatty old people that you can't shut up."

Sam smiled, knowing Dean was probably right. But the smile faded as he glanced back over his shoulder at the darkening woods. He didn't know what it was about this place, but his gut told him there was something sinister in those woods. A little shiver moved down his spine, and he unconsciously picked up his pace, following Dean into the comforting light and warmth of the lodge headquarters.

* * *

A/N: Whew! That was a long chapter. Congrats to all those of you who made it this far. :) Thanks to all of you for reading, and especially to Spinners0end, Onthnis, and jenilee for your kind reviews of the last chapter. It's so encouraging. If y'all see anything I can improve on, please please let me know. Any kind of feedback, good or bad, is so very helpful.

Also, I know this chapter was a lot of exposition. I promise there'll be more action in forthcoming chapters. Hang in there. :)


	4. Chapter 3

**Open Secrets**

Chapter 3

The Winchesters found the lodge owner sitting in an armchair behind the main desk of the lodge headquarters. He wore thick glasses and squinted at a large print thriller novel. He looked up as the boys entered, then stood heavily.

"Oh, you don't need to get up," Sam said quickly. "We were just wondering if you could point us toward a restaurant."

"Well," Williams said, "I can tell you there's a diner not too far from here, just right down the street." He paused and then lifted a finger. "But Jenna tells me that I can type in a search on this computer and it will give you a whole list."

"Oh, that's alright," Dean said quickly. "I'm sure we can—"

"No, no, don't you worry, this'll just take a second," Williams said, waving a hand. "I just have to figure out how to…" but his voice trailed off as he quickly became distracted trying to work the computer.

Dean rolled his eyes at his brother, but Sam just shrugged.

"So how's the filmmaking going, boys?" Williams' cheerful tone now sounded slightly forced.

The Winchesters exchanged a look.

"Well—," Dean started.

"I hear you've been looking for people to interview." Williams paused in his typing to glance over his glasses at Dean in a look that could only be interpreted as chastisement. Dean held the look for a moment, but then turned away. Williams went back to clacking at the keys. "I don't want you boys asking Jenna about the disappearances. She's going through enough, trying to find her son. She doesn't need to deal with recounting it."

"Yes, sir," Sam said quickly. "Absolutely."

Williams frowned at them for an instant longer, but then his face softened. "But just because I don't want you talking to her doesn't mean _I_ don't know anything. I've owned this lodge for nearly thirty years, you know."

There was a pause interrupted only by the slow _click click _of the keys as Williams resumed his typing.

"Really," Dean finally said.

"Uh-huh. And I happen to know something you fellas might not know." Williams abandoned the keyboard, looked left and right suspiciously, then leaned toward Sam and Dean. The boys unconsciously moved closer, too. Williams' voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, and Sam had to listen carefully. "This isn't the first time this has happened," Williams said. "This same thing happened, probably twenty years ago now. 'Bout ten people went missing."

Sam glanced significantly at Dean. Finally, here was a third party witness. But to Sam's surprise, Dean looked anything but relieved. Rather, he looked very nervous.

"Funny business it was. Sad, too," Williams continued. Sam pulled his gaze away from his brother, who was becoming obviously, and increasingly, uncomfortable.

"Do you remember much about those disappearances, Mr. Williams?" Sam asked.

Williams adjusted his glasses with one finger. "Boy, I may be an old man, but there's some things that stick in your mind, no matter how old you get."

Sam nodded sympathetically, trying not to sound too eager for information. "What can you tell us?"

Williams frowned. "There's not much to tell, to be honest. Only one couple survived, and they got a little strange after the attacks. They moved up here from…California, I think. You could talk to them."

Sam frowned, disappointed. "Thank you, sir, but we've already spoken to the Snows. Do you remember much about any of the other people who disappeared?"

Williams stroked his chin, deep in thought. "Yeah, I remember a little. 'Course, the one I remember the best was the last one, because they were staying right here when that little boy went missing. I remember that family like it was yesterday."

Sam bit his lip to stop himself from asking questions too quickly. Now that he thought about it, this last disappearance had to be the most significant. For one reason or another, the attacks had ended after it. "What were they like?" he asked casually.

"Oh, Sammy, you don't want to go digging up memories like that," Dean said casually.

Sam's eyes narrowed as he looked at Dean. Since when had he ever cared about digging up painful memories?

The old man paused before answering. "I don't mind. Just wish I could do something to find that kid. Was just a baby, really, just getting good at walking around on his own. Sure was a real chatterbox though. Cute little thing he was too, always giggling and smiling."

"Do you remember what happened?" Sam asked.

"Sure," Williams said. "Little family showed up, just when all these people were going missing. The dad, can't remember his name now, he told me he was there just wanting to spend some time with his boys."

"His boys?" Sam asked, stressing the plural. "He had more than one son?"

"Sam, just leave it alone," Dean said, this time a little more forcefully. "Let's go grab some dinner."

But Williams seemed not to hear. "Yeah, he had another little boy. Must have been five, six years old. Goofy-looking kid, but real smart. He was quiet. I never could get him to talk to me, but he'd carry on these full conversations with his brother. Really charmed my late wife."

"Well, it was nice talking to you, Mr. Williams, but we're short on time. We really should get going," Dean said. The finality in his tone was practically tangible, but Sam wasn't finished. It wasn't so much what Williams was saying that made him suspicious, but the way Dean was reacting to it.

"What else do you remember?"

Williams glanced from Sam to Dean. He seemed to have finally picked up on the tension between the two, but he answered anyway. "Oh, they were here for a day or two; it was a short stay. They hardly ever left their room, but sometimes the father would go out into the woods for a few hours at a time. It really worried my wife. She was afraid he was leaving the younger boy alone with his brother. He wasn't old enough to be taking care of a toddler. I wasn't too worried, myself. I never saw a father more protective of his children. You could tell he sure loved those boys."

Sam felt a little shiver go up his spine. The room suddenly felt uncomfortably warm. He could hear his heart beating. But no, he told himself. There was no way that it could be…

"Then one night, the father—what was his name?—he comes bursting into the office here, yelling for me to call the cops. He was carrying the older boy in his arms. Poor kid had a nasty goose egg on the back of his head. My wife tried to patch him up while me and the dad went out into the woods. Said that he'd come back to the room, found the door open, his older boy down for the count and the younger one missing. He was totally panicked, but that didn't slow him down, he just went straight out into the woods, started barking orders at me. I wonder if he was in the military," he added as an afterthought. "Seemed like a military man. What was his _name_?"

Sam's throat was very dry. He swallowed, but his voice still cracked a little as he spoke. "What happened then?" he asked, trying to sound casual and disinterested.

"Well, that's just the strangest part of the story," Williams said, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "I went out in the woods, yelling for that little boy, middle of the night and all. Finally gave up after a few hours and came back here, just to find out that the dad was gone. My wife told me that the father had collected up the older boy and sped out of there so fast that he actually left some of his things in his room. He left before the police even showed up."

Sam licked his lips. He made a point of not looking at Dean in his peripheral vision; he was afraid he wouldn't be able to control what came out of his mouth if he saw his brother's face. "You don't…happen to have the things he left?"

Williams waved a hand. "No, we had to turn them over to the police. There were just a few things, though. A t-shirt, must have been one of the boys'. And a book with some pictures stuffed in it, like bookmarks, mostly of the boys with their daddy. The police used one of the pictures to try to find the little boy, but they never did. Shame. I wish I knew what happened to that kid. The look on that father's face…it was just tearing him up that he couldn't find his son. I've never seen such a look on a man's face. He looked…haunted."

Silence sat heavily in the little room. Dean scuffed a shoe against the wooden floor, looking very much like an overgrown five-year-old. Finally, Williams broke the silence.

"Well, anyway, there were no more disappearances after that. The police eventually just gave up. And then they all started up again just recently. I just hope Jason and Jenna have better luck finding their little boy. He's a smart kid." Williams' eyes filled. "And he sure loves his great-grandpa. I'd give anything to find him." There was another pause, and Williams smiled through his tears. "Look at me, sitting here telling stories like an old man. But maybe if people hear about what's going on, it'll help the police find Jordan."

Sam tried to give a comforting smile, but he couldn't quite get his muscles to work right.

"Thanks for the information," Dean said mechanically. "And, don't worry about the restaurant. We'll just go to that diner you mentioned."

"Oh. All right then, if you're sure. Remember, right down the road, about ten miles or so," Williams nodded.

Sam followed Dean outside, working hard to keep his emotion in check.

"So how about dinner?" Dean said with false cheerfulness.

Sam turned his back to Dean, his long legs taking him quickly back to the room. "I'm not hungry."

"Ah, come on, Sammy, sure you are."

Sam spun around angrily, staring Dean down. "No, I'm really, really not."

"Sam, look, just let me—," Dean started. There was real remorse in his eyes, but Sam was too angry to see it.

"We were here, before, when we were kids," Sam said. He somehow managed to keep his voice even. "And you didn't feel the need to tell me about that."

"Sam, I swear, I didn't know either, until—" Dean started, but Sam cut him off.

"No, you knew. Even if you didn't know for sure, you figured it out, you guessed at it, didn't you." Sam could feel his chin trembling from the effort of holding back his anger.

Dean just stood there, clearly looking for something to say.

"It's just that same old thing, isn't it. Dad, with his secrets. You, doing whatever he tells you to. He was the one who sent you here, wasn't he?"

Dean rubbed at the stubble on his chin, not responding.

Sam shook his head in frustration. "Well, here's your big chance, Dean," he said. His voice was a growl, low and dangerous. "Tell me the truth. Why did you ask me to come here?"

Dean's mouth opened, but no sound came out. Sam counted to ten, but when Dean hadn't responded by then, Sam threw up his arms and turned his back on his brother.

He heard Dean call his name, but he didn't stop or turn around. He paused at the door to their room just long enough to hear the car door slam and the engine rev. Sam turned to watch the tires spin in the gravel parking lot, and then the Impala tore out, squealing, onto the road.

Sam wrenched the door open, his rage seething just under the surface. He picked up his backpack and started shoving his belongings into it. He kicked at the bed frame, trying to vent his anger. He couldn't _believe _that Dean had lied to him. Well, he had tried to make amends, had tried to fix things, but this was it. He was finished. Dean obviously didn't need him.

Sam shouldered the pack and exited the room, locking the door behind him. All he had to do was get out on the main road, where he could hitchhike back to school.

He made it about ten feet before he realized how childish he was acting. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that if he walked out now, that would be the end. The bond of brotherhood he and Dean had always shared would be irrevocably broken.

He stopped in his tracks and sighed; he could see his breath in the cold night air. He didn't want to leave, but he also wasn't ready, just yet, to try to patch things up with Dean. He rubbed the back of his neck. Maybe he could sort through his research again, try to find some sort of pattern in the victims.

His mind made up, he turned back toward the room, but took only one step forward before he stopped. The hair on the back of his neck was standing up. He had the unmistakable feeling that someone was watching him.

He turned and surveyed the dark parking lot. Several trucks, a beat up sedan, and a police cruiser sat silent and dark. There didn't seem to be anyone out here except Sam himself. He chuckled softly and shook his head. He was getting jumpy, just standing out here in the dark.

But when he heard the crunch of gravel behind him, he knew he wasn't just being jumpy.

His heartbeat picked up, and he swallowed. He didn't turn around, and instead took a cautious step forward, his fast breathing echoing in his ears.

He stood stock still for just an instant, trying to decide if it would be better to put up a fight or run away. But he didn't have time to over-think the point, and burst into a run, toward the door to the lodge headquarters, which, unlike his room, wouldn't be locked.

He didn't make it very far.

He sensed a quick motion, followed by a sharp pain below his right ear. His pack, hanging over his right shoulder, cushioned him as the gravel of the parking lot rushed up to meet him. He had the chance to think, _oh, this is bad_, before the darkness claimed him.

i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!

Dean pulled into the parking lot of the small diner, but he didn't get out of the car. He wasn't hungry, either, not after Williams' revelation, but there was no way he was going to go back to the room right now.

He pulled his cell phone out of a pocket, thumbing through the numbers quickly: there weren't that many there. He went straight to Sam's name at the bottom of the list, his thumb hovering over the "call" button. But he wasn't ready to talk to Sam, not yet. Not without some answers. So instead he went to the number at the top of the list. There were some things he needed to know.

The phone rang for several minutes before a rough voice picked up. "Yeah?"

"Hey, Bobby, it's Dean."

There was a beat. "Dean. Is everything okay? You hurt?"

Dean's eyebrows knitted. Bobby wasn't usually so quick to jump to conclusions. "Uh, yeah. I'm fine…just, I have some questions for you."

"Oh. What can I do for you?"

Dean cleared his throat. Here was the moment he was dreading, but he had to ask it. "Have you ever found anything that made you think…that maybe some, um...urban legends...might be real?"

"Like Bigfoot?"

Dean sat in the silent car, his mouth hanging open. "Uh, yeah, actually."

"Look, Dean, I don't want to get in the middle of this. You should ask your daddy. He shoulda told you himself, a long time ago."

Dean felt like his mind was going in slow motion. This was not the way he had pictured this conversation going. "What are you talking about? What about my dad? How do you even know about his hunt? Did he tell you?"

There was a sigh on the other line. "Dean…"

"Bobby, I'll talk to my dad." Dean let out a self-deprecating chuckle. _Or try to at least_, he thought. "But you gotta tell me what you know."

"All I know is that John told Jim that he was sending you on a hunt alone, and Jim told me. We both tried to talk him out of it, but you know your dad."

Dean tried to swallow the little burst of humiliation that hit him. So everyone had known that this was Dean's first solo hunt. And apparently, Bobby, at least, had been sure it would result in failure. He heard Bobby's first words to him echo in his head: _Is everything okay? Are you hurt?_

"Um, yeah, I do know him," Dean finally said. "Sounds just like him."

There was an uncomfortable silence. "Maybe you just oughtta call him..."

Dean clenched his teeth, and let out a slow breath. "I will, but I need some information first."

"About Bigfoot." It wasn't a question.

"Yeah, how did you know that was what I was going to ask about?"

"Well, that was what your dad said you were hunting."

A number of choice phrases sprang to Dean's mind at this disclosure. He shook his head. That was a discussion to be had with Dad, not Bobby. "Fine, whatever. Just tell me, is it true? Does he really exist?"

Bobby sighed. "I'm not sure. Kind of, I guess."

Dean sighed angrily. "Bobby, I'm not really in the mood for riddles. Just tell me."

There was a pause on the line, and Dean's suspicions flared again. He'd never known Bobby to sit and think about what he was going to say before he said it.

"There is definitely _something_ out there, and your dad thinks it's Bigfoot."

"Thinks?"

There was another short pause. "Hunting ain't exactly a science, boy. Some hunters think one thing, and some think another, and your dad thinks that Bigfoot is real."

"Is it?"

"Dean, I don't honestly know. Your dad got his information from some Indian shaman or something, so I guess it could be. But I've never heard or seen anything personally that make me think it's real. Why do you think John never told you about this before? Most hunters'd think he's crazy."

Dean was beginning to get frustrated. "Just tell me what you know."

Bobby sighed, but he didn't try to qualify his information any further. "According to your dad's source, years ago, this Bigfoot thing was a protector, sort of like a spirit animal. The Indian tribes called him 'big brother.' He protected them from other tribes, and then later, the white man."

"But that doesn't make sense. There aren't any tribes around here that I know of."

"Your dad thinks it's working on instinct," Bobby said, sounding very skeptical. "Trying to do it's job even if there isn't a job left to do."

"So was that couple telling the truth?" Dean asked. "The first ones that went missing?"

"The Snows? Johnny told me about them. It sure seems like they are."

"But Michelle Snow told us that…" he couldn't quite get the word "Bigfoot" out. "…the creature sort of played cat and mouse with her. He'd let her go and bring her back."

Bobby let out a breath. "Well, as I see it, there are two possibilities. It could just be part of its MO. Maybe it relies on the person's fear or emotion or something to keep it going. There're plenty of creatures that absorb emotions."

Dean nodded. That sounded plausible enough. "What's the second option?"

"The second option is that that poor woman is flat out crazy and she just somehow managed to escape before the creature chewed her up too."

Dean sighed. Why couldn't it have been a nice, routine vengeful spirit or something? Things always got all complicated when creatures entered the picture…

"Is there anything else you know?"

Bobby chuckled. "Look, Dean, I'm not even sure I believe what I just told you. This is just what your dad says he found."

Dean rubbed his forehead. He was starting to get frustrated. "Right, I got it. You don't believe it. Did _Dad_ tell you anything else?"

"Just that it's supposed to be a really good killer. Supposed to have super-senses, or something. Your dad thinks that if he smells your spilled blood, he can track you for the rest of your life."

Dean thought about that. He suddenly remembered that Mrs. Snow had mentioned Angus Haden cut his leg open while looking for his friends. And he had been the first victim this time. His father's theory seemed to be true.

"Super." Dean took a deep breath. "Well, I guess now I just need to know how we kill it."

Bobby cleared his throat. "You'll have to talk to your dad about that."

"What? Why? Just tell me."

"Hey, I'd love to, kid, but I already told you I don't think there's even such a thing as Bigfoot. You ask me, sounds more like a skinwalker or a wendigo. I can tell you how to kill either of those, but I got nothing on Bigfoot."

Dean suppressed another round of curse words. "Fine. Sam and I can figure it out."

"Sam?"

"Yeah, you know, my brother, Sam. Tall, really geeky?"

"I don't need lip, Dean just answer the question. You brought Sam?"

Dean paused. "Yeah. I figured you knew. You know everything else. Dad told me to bring him."

"Your dad _told_ you to bring him?" Bobby sounded genuinely angry now.

"Yeah. He was pretty stiff about it too. Wouldn't let me go without him."

"I'm guessing you didn't tell Sam that," Bobby said.

Dean bit his lower lip and chose not to answer.

Bobby swore. "Dean, you gotta keep a close eye on him. You gotta watch out for him."

How many times had he heard that advice before? "I will. Don't worry. I'll talk to you later, Bobby."

"Sure, Dean. Bye."

Dean sat in the silent car, trying to process everything he had heard. His hands were shaking slightly, anger burning through him. He thought he'd gotten used to this brand of enigmatic secrecy from his father: it was just how things were. But that didn't mean he had to like it. Especially not now, when his dad's great plans had royally messed things up. And then there was Bobby's skepticism to consider.

But Dean had never known his father to be wrong, or at least not this wrong, about a hunt. Even though it sounded crazy to Dean, he was inclined to side with his father. If John Winchester believed that Bigfoot was attacking people, then Bigfoot was attacking people.

Dean sighed. He needed to talk to his dad, needed to know the details of their previous trip here. But Bobby's doubt and the fact that no one seemed to believe him capable of hunting this thing had made him feel reckless. He wanted to prove that he could do this on his own. He didn't know how he was going to kill it, but there had to be a way. He'd just have to find out.

And to do that, he'd have to talk to Sam.

He knew it wouldn't be easy, making up with his little brother. Sam wasn't likely to understand or believe any of Dean's reasoning, but he had to try. And the best way to do that was to start off with the truth.

He was back at the lodge before he even really knew what he was doing, rehearsing progressively lamer apologies in his head. He approached the door, starting his speech before the door had even opened all the way.

"Sam. We need to talk. About what that guy said…"

He stopped mid-sentence, looking around the room. All the lights were off. The TV was off, the A/C was off, and the bathroom was unoccupied. Dean stepped further into the room.

"Sam?"

There was no answer. Probably stepped out for a walk or something, Dean thought. Sam sure was the type to take a long, brooding walk. He pulled his phone out, dialing Sam's number absentmindedly. As the phone started to ring, he looked around the room, trying to find the notes he knew his brother had been making.

"Hi, this is Sam. Leave a message."

There was a short beep, and Dean closed the phone, not surprised that Sam wasn't answering. He was probably still angry enough to ignore a phone call. He couldn't really blame him, either. He decided he'd give Sam a while to cool off, talk to him when he got back to the room. But where was that backpack? He knew how specific Sam was about his notes. He always kept them organized and always in that backpack.

He filtered through a stack of dirty clothes he had been accumulating for the last few days, muttering under his breath. The room wasn't that big, after all. There weren't that many places for the backpack to be…

Dean stopped suddenly. His stomach dropped as an unsettling thought reached him. He opened several drawers, looked in the duffel on the small table. He stood and ran a hand through his hair.

None of Sam's stuff was here, and there was only one explanation. Sam must have run out on him.

It was like the moment Sam had announced that he was leaving for Stanford, except that Sam had run out on him this time, _him_ and not Dad, and that made the realization that much worse.

He sat down heavily onto the bed. So that was it. Sam was gone. He was really on his own.

i!!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i

Sam woke slowly. His face was pressed against something rough. And the world was moving. He opened his eyes gradually, experimentally, used to the disorientation that came with waking up from unconsciousness. But for some reason, this felt different. This wasn't dizziness…he was actually moving.

With that disturbing thought, his eyes flew open all the way.

He was being carried, rather unceremoniously, through the dark forest, like a sack of potatoes. It was very uncomfortable, and he tried to straighten out, tried to get away, but his attacker just gripped his legs more tightly. This close to the hair the creature's smell was nearly unbearable, and that mixed with his the pain from his head almost caused him to be sick. He stifled a gag as the creature shifted his weight and let out a little growl. He tried to relax, knowing he couldn't get away, but at that moment the creature stopped walking.

Sam knew a terrifying moment of weightlessness, and then he connected with the top of a sharply slanting hill. Gravity sent him sliding downward, but his momentum was violently arrested when his right foot hooked on to a protruding tree branch, forcing his leg to straighten. There was a faint pop, and then a sharp shooting pain. His leg twisted unnaturally, and the movement loosened him from the tree branch, allowing him to finish the fall down the hill.

He landed on the ground with an _oomph_, his shoulder banging hard onto the packed dirt floor. He lay there for a moment, trying to breathe, trying to fight back the pain in his leg, and then he couldn't hold it in anymore. He let out a scream that fizzled out into a disjointed list of every swearword Dean had ever taught him. It took a while. Dean could be unusually creative when it came to cussing.

Finally, drained, he put his head back, gently, because he could feel a bump where he had been hit.

This was not good.

His breath came in sharp gasps; he tried to relax and breathe more deeply. He pushed himself into a sitting position, trying not to move his leg. Then he scooted back to the wall of the little cave. When he got there, he took a moment to rest and figure out what he was going to do.

That was when he realized there were sounds in the cave. Sniffling.

Somehow, that just didn't seem like the noise the evil beast of the forest would be making. "Is someone there?" he asked softly.

A small, shivering figure came out of the shadow on the other side of the wall. It was a little boy, Sam realized. He was wearing blue jeans and a stained t-shirt. Dirt was streaked across his face and through thick, short-cropped blonde hair. Watery blue eyes met Sam's, but he didn't move much closer.

"It's okay," Sam said through gritted teeth. "I'm not going to hurt you. Come here."

The little boy moved a little closer. "You yelled."

Sam nodded. "Yeah. I'm sorry about that."

"You swared."

Sam winced. "Yeah, I'm sorry about that too. Didn't know I had an audience."

The boy seemed to absorb that, and then he came over and plopped down next to Sam. "My name is Jordan."

Sam shifted his weight in surprise. "Jordan Burke?"

"Yeah. How did you know?"

Sam smiled without any humor. "I've sort of…been looking for you. Is there anyone else in here?"

The boy frowned. "Like who?"

Sam tried to remember the names of the two people who had most recently been attacked, but gave it up quickly. His leg was making it hard to focus on anything else. "Uh…I don't remember. An old man, and a boy?"

Jordan shook his head. "No, it's just me." He still seemed wary of Sam.

"It's okay," Sam said. "I'm not gonna hurt you."

Jordan's chin shook just a little. "But can you help me?"

Sam sighed, wishing he could offer the kid more hope. "I don't know." He gave the boy a long look, but he couldn't think of anything to say, and he needed to take care of himself before he could even think about trying to help Jordan. He reached down and carefully rolled up his pant leg, hissing slightly to stop himself from introducing the kid to a whole new round of obscenities.

"Did you get hurt?" Jordan asked softly.

There was really no use denying it. The screaming had probably given him away. "Yeah." He inspected the leg carefully. It was definitely broken. If the shooting pain wasn't enough of a message, he could tell it was already starting to swell. He needed to act quickly. He carefully untied his shoe and slipped it off. Jordan watched over his shoulder with wide eyes.

"Hey Jordan, do you want to help me with something?"

Jordan nodded silently.

"See if you can find any sticks in here. Some straight ones, about this long." Sam held his hands about a foot apart.

"There aren't any sticks, but there's some pieces of wood in that corner." He didn't move, watching Sam as if waiting for a stamp of approval. Sam nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and the kid jumped up to fetch the piece of wood. He wasn't at all sure that a chunk of wood was going to do the trick, but he had to splint it somehow, and quickly, before he lost the tenuous grip he had on sanity and consciousness.

He slipped his coat off, then his flannel button-up shirt, and finally his t-shirt. The air was biting cold against his bare skin, and he hurriedly replaced the flannel shirt. Jordan was looking longingly at the discarded khaki jacket, and Sam realized it had probably been a while since he was really warm. Truth be told, Sam was pretty cold himself, but Jordan looked so small, shivering in the damp dark.

"Here, wear this," he said, holding the coat out.

"It's yours."

Sam grit his teeth as a new wave of sensation flooded from his foot up. He put on a fake smile and handed the thick jacket over.

"Nah, I'm not cold. Got my shirt here, see?"

Jordan hesitated for one more instant, and then his instinct for self-preservation won over. He took the jacket from Sam's hands and slid into it. The sleeves were far too long, and the hem reached his knees. He looked like he was drowning in a sea of khaki. Despite this, he looked up with a broad smile on his face.

"Thanks, mister."

"You can call me Sam."

"Thanks, Sam."

Sam picked up the two by four piece of wood that Jordan had brought him, surveying it. There was a long crack down the middle. He hit it sharply against the edge of the wall, and the wood split almost exactly down the middle.

"Finally some good luck," he muttered. He took the two pieces and set them down next to him, knowing the hard part was about to begin.

"Okay, Jordan, here's the deal. See this funny little bump here?" Sam indicated his leg. Jordan nodded, starting to look a little scared. Sam had to admit he was a little scared too, but somehow it calmed him, to say it out loud like this. "It means my leg is broken. I have to splint it, or else it can be very bad, okay? I'm probably going to make some noises. You don't have to be scared, all right?"

Jordan nodded again, but he backed away just a little bit. Sam could hardly blame him. He wasn't looking forward to this either. With shaking hands, he ripped the t-shirt into strips, which he could use to tie the splint on. He prepared the chunks of woods and his t-shirt so they would be all set up when he was ready.

"I have to tie my shirt here around these two pieces of wood. That sounds pretty easy, right?"

Jordan nodded, but Sam guessed it was just to be agreeable. After all, he was just a kid. Sam doubted any of this made sense. He vowed silently to try to explain all this, to do anything to help the little boy, but to do that he had to take care of himself.

"If something happens and I…fall asleep, you need to tie this together, like this. Do you think you can do that?"

Jordan nodded again, but his lower lip was trembling. Sam wasn't at all sure the kid would be capable of helping him if he needed it, but he needed some insurance, as little as it might be, before he started this. If he passed out while he tried to do this, he didn't want to have to try to re-splint it. He didn't think he could even if he tried.

"Okay," he muttered to himself. "Here goes nothing."

He reached down and let out a long breath. Then, as quickly as he could, he lined the pieces of wood up and tied them together, as tightly as was possible with shaking hands. A blinding pain, even worse than he'd expected, flashed upward from his foot. It was enough to make him nauseous.

Sam had had a lot of injuries over the years. Hunting and good health just didn't go together. He'd been stabbed, cut, concussed, bruised, and, on one memorable occasion, thrown down a well. But this was one of the more excruciating pains he had felt, made more so by the fact that neither Dean nor his father were here to help him.

A yell started to bubble up from his throat, but he suppressed it and kept himself moving, checking to make sure he'd done everything right. He thought it was right, but it was difficult to splint one's own leg. The important thing was that it had some stabilization, at least until he could get to a hospital and have a doctor do it properly.

He forced himself to relax, trying to keep his mind on anything but his leg, thinking maybe he could hold it together. But it in the back of his mind, he knew it was a lost cause.

He scooted closer to Jordan, away from the little door where he had been thrown down. The kid looked terrified. "It'll be okay, Jordan, all right?" Silent tears were running down Jordan's face, and Sam regretted that the kid had had to see that.

"I need you to wake me up in a few minutes. Can you do that? It's very important."

Jordan nodded. "And then can we find a way out?"

Sam tried to smile. "Yeah, we can."

"Okay."

Sam tried to make it look more like he was laying down to take a nap than passing out, but the fact of the matter was that splinting your own broken leg with a two by four and a t-shirt and no painkillers after getting knocked out was just not napping material.

He was out before his head hit the ground.

* * *

A/N: Thanks again for all those of you who are still with me! I hope you're enjoying it so far. As always, here's my shameless plug for reviews: if you have any feedback for me, good or bad, I'd love to hear it. Any feedback helps me improve. :)

Also, thanks to jenilee, Cat, and Spinners0end for your thoughtful reviews. You really helped me tighten things up for this chapter. Y'all are amazing!


	5. Chapter 4

**Open Secrets**

Chapter 4

John Winchester was bored. Bored out of his mind, actually, and bored was a very dangerous place for him to be. Boredom led to free time, time to just think, and that inevitably led to thoughts of Mary, of the demon he still couldn't find, of the lives he had forced his sons into, of the older son who no longer trusted him and a younger son who detested him. And thoughts like that usually led him to find comfort in the oblivion of the bottle and an alcohol-induced coma.

Which was why he was glad when the phone started to ring.

He pushed himself up awkwardly from the bed, the big cast on his leg slowing him down, and tossed the remote onto the table behind him. The television was on in the background, useful for nothing more than white noise while he sifted through newspapers from all over the country, trying to put together patterns and find new hunts.

He almost didn't find his phone before it stopped ringing. Normally, he would have let it go to voice mail, but he was just bored enough that he was grateful for the distraction.

"Yeah?"

"John?"

He sighed heavily, knowing the feeling would carry over the phone.

"Yeah, Bobby, it's me."

"You're an idiot."

"Thanks a lot."

"You sent Sam with Dean."

John shifted a little, feeling guilty. He couldn't think what to say to that. "Yeah."

"What were you thinking? He was happy at school, and you pulled him out to what…use him as bait?"

John ground his teeth. "That's going too far. You don't know what you're talking about. I'm trying to protect him."

"How do you figure that?"

There was a beep in his ear; someone was on the other line. "Bobby, I gotta go. Dean's calling."

"I'm not finished with you yet, John, you—"

John pulled the phone away before he could hear the rest of the reply. He switched over to Dean's line. "Yeah?" he growled.

"Sam's gone."

"_What?_" John was sure his heart had stopped. There seemed to be a ringing somewhere. His mouth was dry. He hadn't felt this kind of panic in years. His mind was racing so fast he almost missed what Dean said next.

"I just got back and he was gone. He's run off."

John's heart slowed a little. He felt a little lightheaded as relief flooded through him. Sam had left on his own accord. That meant he hadn't been taken against his will.

Then his blood started boiling. "He ran away? I should have known this would happen. He just _ran_ off on you. Why would he do that?"

When Dean responded there was a snap in his voice that John had rarely heard. "Probably because we had a very interesting conversation with the owner of the lodge. He remembered the disappearances from twenty years ago, Dad. Sam figured out that we must have been here then."

John found himself at a loss for words for the second time in the last few minutes.

Dean blew his breath out in frustration. "By the fact that you're not saying anything, I'm guessing Sam was right. We were here before, weren't we?"

"Dean--"

"Why didn't you tell me? You sent me here blind, Dad. And if I had known the truth ahead of time, I could have told Sam the truth and maybe he'd still be here." There was pause in which Dean took an audible breath over the phone. "We might not have another chance of fixing things."

John recognized the strain in Dean's voice. He knew how much Sam's absence had cost his older son over the past two years, how much Dean had been looking forward to the opportunity to make things right. "Dean, there was a reason I didn't tell you."

"Oh really? What was it. I'm dying to hear it." Now Dean's voice was clipped, angry. John was tempted to give Dean a piece of his mind, correct his son's disrespect, but he knew that he deserved it. How could he even answer that question? _Because I was scared. Because I was ashamed. Because I messed up, and I almost lost what mattered most._

"It's complicated," he finally said.

"Dad, Sam is gone! I need to know."

It hurt almost physically to admit that he had been wrong. It hurt worse to admit that his mistake was coming back to bite him all these years later, and all of the sudden he found himself talking, as if in a trance, and once he started, it felt good to finally get the truth out there, to get this stifling guilt off his chest.

"It was only my second hunt. It was a few months after I met Bobby. He asked me to go check it out, just see what was going on. He told me not to do anything, just check things out, and he wanted to send another hunter my way to actually hunt the thing, since I was inexperienced. I had to take you boys with me. I couldn't leave you alone…"

His voice trailed off as he relived that day in his mind. They had stayed at Bobby's the night before—Dean had been fascinated by the cars out in the junkyard. It was a long drive to the lodge, with Dean fidgeting most of the way there.

They pulled up to the lodge late that night, the tires crunching in the gravel. John slid the car into park and turned around in his seat. Sam was in the back in his car seat, looking distinctly uncomfortable. He was asleep, his thick dark hair damp against his forehead, his head resting on his shoulder. John sighed. Putting Sammy in a car was a surefire way to get him to sleep. As long as the engine was running the kid would be dead to the world, which was great news during the long drives—who wanted to entertain a six-year-old and a two-year-old in the car all day?—but John knew that when bedtime rolled around he would be dealing with one very hyperactive toddler.

A head of blonde hair appeared next to John. Dean surveyed Sam intently, like an appraising parent.

"Do you think we should wake him up, Dad?"

John didn't reply, but reached back and gently touched Sam's knee. "Wake up, Sammy."

Sam stirred but didn't open his eyes. John knew from experience that it would take another ten minutes or so for him to become fully conscious, so he turned to his older son.

"Okay, Dean, here's the deal. We can't let anyone know what our names are, okay?"

"Why?"

John paused. His son might be mature for his age, but there was no way he was going to personally introduce his kid to words like Child Care Services and Tax Collectors and Cops.

"Because it's…a game. Want to play a game?"

Dean's eyes hooded as he glanced over his shoulder. "Can Sammy play too?" he asked warily.

"Yeah, but you're going to have to help him."

"Cuz he's real little," Dean replied matter-of-factly.

"Yeah. So here's the game. We're all going to pick pretend names and we'll call each other our pretend names. Okay? What should Sammy's name be?"

"Matthew!" Dean responded instantly. John smiled. It was Dean's middle name. It must have been the first thing that came to mind.

"That's a good choice. What about your name?"

This took longer, since his first choice was already taken. His brow furrowed, deep in thought, but after a moment, his head came up. "Neil?"

John chuckled as Sam gave a huge drowsy yawn behind him. "Where'd you get that one from, kiddo?"

"You said that Neil Punt was the greatest drummer alive, remember Dad? I'm gonna be a drummer too. Is it a good name, Daddy?"

John's jaw dropped a little. It was true, he had mentioned that particular opinion, but it had been over a week ago when a random Rush song had come on the radio. It was just one of a million off-hand comments John had made, mostly to keep himself from going crazy from boredom. "Yeah, it's a good name. But if you're going to be named after the greatest drummer alive, you gotta get it right. It's Peart, not Punt. Neil Peart." He saw Dean repeat the name softly, under his breath, trying out the sound of it.

John opened the door and stiffly pulled himself out of the car, reflecting that in the future, he'd have to be a little more careful about other off-hand comments and certain colorful phrases he had begun to employ in Mary's absence if he didn't want Dean picking up those too.

Sam was almost completely awake now, pulling against the seatbelt around the car seat and looking a little grouchy. John freed the little boy and pulled him out of the car, trying to pick him up. Sam squirmed and arched his back. "No, me!"

John put him down gently, not in the mood for an argument. "Okay, but you hold Dean's hand, right, Sammy?"

Sam willingly acquiesced, stepping forward to grab his older brother's hand as Dean pulled on his backpack.

John pulled the boys' stuff and his own gear out of the trunk, and then followed behind the boys in the direction of the lodge. Sam was babbling happily to his brother, but Dean had already started to clam up in preparation for entering the lodge. For almost a year after the fire, Dean had barely said a word. Even now, he became mysteriously deaf and mute around anyone other than his father and brother.

John tried to get them checked in quickly, but the lodge owner's wife, Elizabeth, had become instantly charmed by a mixture of "Matthew's" charismatic giggles and "Neil's" too-mature silence. John watched the boys while the owner, David, looked for their room key. He was pleased to notice that Dean tended to hover protectively next to Sam. He was glad that Sam was already relying on his brother. He had a feeling they would need that bond as they grew up.

Elizabeth bent down so that she was at eye-level with the boys. "How old are you?" she asked amiably. Sam held up three fingers, and then worked to carefully lower the third halfway. Elizabeth grinned, delighted. "Two and a half?" she guessed. Sam nodded enthusiastically, so she turned to Dean.

"And how old are you?" she said kindly. Dean rigidly ignored her, moving to hide behind John's leg.

"He's shy," John explained, touching the top of Dean's head lightly.

Elizabeth smiled softly and turned her attention back to Sam. "Are you shy, too?" she asked.

"No!" Sammy yelled. Pretty much everything Sam said lately was a yell. "I Sam!"

"It's a nickname," John explained quickly.

Elizabeth laughed, looking over her shoulder at her husband. "Aren't they darling, honey?"

The lodge owner grinned at the boys and passed the key over to John. "Here you are, Mr. Smith. It's just around this corner."

Dean stepped forward and grabbed Sam's hand, following their father out the door. As soon as the door closed behind them, Dean turned to his brother. "Sammy, you can't tell people your name," he said authoritatively. "You have to be Matthew and I have to be Neil."

"Why? I'm Sam." Sammy's eyebrows scrunched together as he awaited an answer.

"Keep moving, boys," John said.

Dean pulled Sam forward again. "It's a game. Only big boys can play it. Can you be a big boy, Sammy?"

"Yes!"

"Okay, then you have to call me Neil and I have to call you Matthew whenever we're around other people."

"Okay!" Sam answered enthusiastically.

John smiled softly. Sam was really too little to understand the game, so he doubted Dean's efforts would pay off, but John couldn't help but be grateful for the way Dean tried to help out with the energetic toddler.

He herded the boys through the door to their room and watched them both run to claim a side of the far bed. John dropped the duffel next to the table and shut the door behind him, making sure it was securely locked. Then he started piling newspaper clippings, handwritten notes, and stolen police reports on top of the little table. Dean watched with solemn eyes.

"Can I help, Dad?"

"No, we'll get started on this tomorrow. Let's call it a night, dude. Go get your brother his jammies."

"Story!" Sam shouted.

"No baby talk, Sammy," John said, trying to organize his research. In his peripheral vision, he saw Dean help get Sam's pajamas on and his teeth brushed. Sam obediently did what Dean asked, but as soon as the ritual was completed, he jumped up on the bed and held out a storybook. "Story!"

"Sam…" John warned.

Sam's smile drooped into a pout. "Please, Daddy? Will you read me a story?"

"Maybe tomorrow night. It's too late right now. Go to sleep, Sammy."

Sam slid under the covers, still pouting. John could tell it would be a while before he really settled down. He turned off the lights anyway, hoping it would calm Sam, but knew he had messed up when a pained voice rang out instantly. "Daddy!"

"Sorry, Sam!" John said, sincerely remorseful. Sam was terrified of the dark, and with no nightlights in most motel rooms, John had taken to leaving the television on at night with the sound off. He turned the TV on and muted it. Sam's shadowed form was sitting upright in the bed, looking strangely colorless in the light of television. "It's okay. Go to sleep," John said gently.

Sam lay back down and curled into a ball under the covers. John collapsed onto the other bed, wishing for the thousandth time that Mary were here for her boys.

The next few days passed uneventfully, with John spending most of his time out in the forest looking for evidence of anything unusual. He rarely found anything, but it didn't help that he really didn't have any idea what to look for, although his research made him think he was dealing with some kind of creature. He was trying to plow though books he had borrowed from both Jim Murphy and Bobby, but he wasn't quite expert enough to be able to even begin guessing what kind of a creature it was. All he knew was that it killed, and it was messy about it.

The afternoon of the third day found John sitting uncomfortably in a tree, twenty feet above the ground, watching through a pair of borrowed binoculars as the police investigated a crime scene. He was too far away to really hear what was going on, but he could see well enough. The cops were stumped. He could see it in their posture, in the way they scrutinized the ground, looking for any kind of a hint or clue.

He shifted awkwardly, trying to find a comfortable position in the crook of the tree. He lowered the binoculars. The cops weren't accomplishing anything, and by default, neither was he. It was time to get back to the boys. He lowered himself carefully to the tree branch below him, trying to be as quiet as possible. It wouldn't do to alert the cops to his presence. He kept one eye on them and one eye on what he was doing as he slid down the tree.

Suddenly he tensed. The cops had all stopped moving around, and they were staring at the tree he was descending. For a split second, John thought he'd been spotted. He let out a slow breath as he quickly tried to cook up a reason for sitting in a tree with a set of binoculars. But his concentration was interrupted when one of the cops moved closer and said, "What _is _that?"

Somehow, that just didn't seem the appropriate response for finding a man stuck in a tree.

His heart pounding, he turned enough so that he could see what they were all staring at.

It was below him, hulking in the darkness. Its hair was thick and matted and its eyes gleamed a poisonous yellow. But John's attention was mostly directed toward its claws, 6 inches long, curved, and black. It was staring up the tree, watching him, like a snake waiting for a mouse to get close enough to pounce. John closed his eyes slowly, cursing his stupidity. How was it possible that he hadn't noticed that the creature he was hunting was _right there!_

One of the bolder cops moved closer, trying to get a better look, and the creature's attention turned from John to the cop. Without thinking, John quickly dropped out of the tree, with no plan and no weapons, only knowing he had to get the thing away from the group of cops in front of him.

"Hey!" he shouted unimaginatively. The thing turned toward John. On instinct, he lobbed the heavy binoculars at the creature's head. A low growl issued from its throat. John could tell it was angry now, and becoming more and more disinterested in the cops. He took a step back, and the thing followed.

"Shoot it!" one of the cops said. A gunshot rang out in the night. It sounded like it hit the thing, but John doubted normal bullets would do much against it.

He seemed to be right; rather than going down, the creature turned back to the cops and let out an earsplitting roar. One of the cops, a woman, screamed. Desperate, not knowing what to do, John picked up a fist sized rock and tossed it at the creature.

"Hey, come and get me!" he yelled. It worked. The creature took a step toward him, and John took off running, even though he still had no plan. He knew that he couldn't just run around forever, but he had no idea what he was dealing with—and no idea how to kill it.

Hoping to buy himself some time, he quickly climbed another tree. He was ten feet off the ground and reasonably well-hidden in foliage by the time the creature caught up to him. Now that he wasn't distracted by the need to get away, John could get a decent look at the thing. From this distance, it no longer looked very dangerous. It moved fairly quickly, but each movement was awkward, like a four-legged animal which had been taught to walk on two legs, but whose anatomical structure just didn't support that particular arrangement of weight.

The creature rushed past John's tree in its uncomfortable, loping gait, and kept on moving. John waited patiently, expecting it to be back any minute, but it didn't return. He heaved a sigh of relief, feeling he had made a very narrow escape.

Now he just had to decide what to do next.

If he had known what he was dealing with or how to kill it, he would have stayed, no questions asked. But the fact was that he had no idea what kind of a creature this was. Bobby had sent him here to do research, that was all. It had always been the plan for a more experienced hunter to take care of the dangerous part of this hunt.

But really, John knew he was just trying to give himself an out. The truth was, now that he had seen how close to the lodge the creature had gotten, he didn't want his boys within a hundred miles of it. As much as he hated the thought of leaving the job undone, he knew he had no real choice. He had to get the boys out.

He forced himself to wait in the tree for a full hour, always expecting the creature to suddenly burst out of the underbrush. It never did, but he still felt as if someone was watching him where he sat.

Finally, he couldn't stand to wait any longer. He had to get the boys out of here. He dropped down from the tree and didn't even bother to look around before he was running toward the lodge.

Twilight was just starting to set in as John's hand touched the doorknob. He opened it with more force than he had intended. The boys, huddled around one of Sammy's picture books, jumped in surprise as he entered. He slammed the door behind him and moved straight into the room, packing up belongings that seemed to have scattered all over the small room.

"Get your stuff, Dean, we're going."

Dean must have sensed the tension in John's tone, because he instantly started collecting his belongings. John turned his attention to hurriedly shoving his own things into the duffel.

A primeval roar suddenly echoed off in the distance. John paused, halfway through the motion of shoving bags of rock salt into his weapons bag. He straightened slowly, feeling his fear rapidly returning. He glanced at the boys, who had similarly paused in their motions and were staring at him with wide eyes. Trying not to show his trepidation, he continued packing. Sheets of paper and random articles of clothing dropped out of his bag and onto the floor in his hurry, but at the moment that didn't concern him.

"Get Sam his shoes. Now, Dean!"

Sam, quiet for once, picked up his shoes and brought them to Dean, who tried to put them on Sam's feet and tie them up with shaking fingers. John only watched long enough to be sure that Dean was taking care of things, then he shouldered the pack and glanced out the window.

He whispered a curse. He couldn't see anything, not really, but his imagination was playing tricks on him, making him visualize tall, malicious shapes in the trees: somehow, he knew it was coming, and soon. His fear was paralyzing him, making him move too quickly and think too little.

John took Dean's shoulders and kneeled down in front of him. He tried to calm his heartbeat and breathing so that Dean wouldn't feel his fear. He was about to issue an order to his six-year-old son that most adults wouldn't follow in this kind of situation, and he needed Dean to follow it without thinking, without allowing fear to slow him down. John could feel his boy's shoulders tense under his hands.

"Take Sam out to the car and lock the door behind you, okay, Dean?" His voice shook only slightly. "As soon as I get out there, unlock the door for me, and then we're out of here. Got it?"

Dean nodded mutely and took Sam's hand. John picked a shotgun out of his army duffel bag and loaded it with shaking fingers. He still didn't know what he was dealing with, so he didn't know what would hurt it, but there was no way he was going out there unarmed. He had rounds of silver, iron, and rock salt. He wasted a precious moment agonizing over what he should load into the gun. Finally, he shoved an iron round into the chamber and stuck some salt rounds in a pocket, just in case.

"Come on, Sammy," he heard Dean whisper behind him. John took a deep breath and opened the door a crack, looking outside. He couldn't see any movement. This seemed like the best moment. Right now, the coast was clear, the creature was out of sight, and his boys would have plenty of time to run out to the car. But that didn't make the moment any easier. He hesitated, wondering if he was crazy to do this, to send his boys out there, but he needed to get them into the car so they could all get away.

Finally, he gave Dean the signal and held the door open. The boys scampered out, Dean pulling Sam behind him awkwardly, the younger boy struggling to keep up. As soon as they were clear, John ran out the door with the shotgun drawn. As fast as he could, he moved toward the edge of the trees. He was leaving here without killing the creature or finishing his research, and he could live with that. But he had to at least try to offer some measure of protection to the people here.

He pulled one of the bags of salt from his duffel as he ran; as soon as he reached the tree line, he started laying a haphazard line of salt. Bobby had once told him that salt lines would stop virtually any evil thing. John could only hope that this creature wasn't an exception.

When the bag emptied he crumpled it up and shoved it in his duffel. That would have to be enough. He didn't have time for anything else, and he could always come back later, without the boys.

Looping the strap of the duffel over one shoulder, he turned his back on the line he had created…just in time to hear the now-familiar roar behind him. John whirled around, and was shocked to realize that the creature was standing barely twenty feet away from him. As he brought the shotgun up to his shoulder, he frantically tried to figure out how it had found him again so quickly. It seemed impossible, unless it was a lot smarter than John had originally assumed, and had followed his scent here all the way from the tree he had hid in earlier.

Whatever the case, it was here now, and he had to try to stop it. He took careful aim and fired, hitting the creature on the shoulder. It looked down at the wound, as if in confusion. For an instant, John wondered if he had accidentally discovered the secret to killing it, but then it looked up again, and there was murder in its eyes.

"Oh bad," John whispered to himself. "Oh bad, oh bad, oh…"

He hastily reloaded, even as he was turning around and running in the other direction. His only hope now was that his salt lines would stop it.

He made it an entire twenty feet before he learned that no, the salt would not slow it down.

He felt a slap across his back that might have been a block of cement: the creature had caught up with him faster than he'd anticipated. The hit knocked the wind out of him, and he skidded forward into the gravel of the parking lot. He tried to recover his breathing, expecting at any moment to feel claws in his back. He prepared himself, praying silently that his boys at least would be safe, that they could somehow get away.

But the pain, the horror, never came. He sucked in a lungful of air, marveling that he was still alive, and for a moment, sweet relief coursed through his veins. For some inexplicable reason, it hadn't finished him off.

Maybe it had turned around. Maybe they were safe.

And then the relief froze in his chest.

"Dean!" shrieked Sam's voice. John tried to get to his feet, but he stumbled in the loose gravel. He finally gathered his feet beneath him, but the boys were nearly a hundred yards away, and the creature was ahead of John by at least fifty feet.

John ran, watching Dean frantically yank the door handle, trying to get it open, but it was either stuck or locked. Finally, Dean gave up trying to get the door opened and instead, tried to force Sam to get under the car. It didn't seem to be working; Sam, as uncooperative as ever, was fighting him.

John pushed himself to run harder, get there faster, but all he could do was watch, still at least fifty yards away, as Dean tried to protect Sam. Even this far away, he could see Dean's eyes round as the creature got closer and closer. Dean backed up, trying to protect Sam, and tripped over Sam's foot. His head hit the car, and he hit the ground hard.

Forty yards away, and he could hear Sam sobbing, "Dean, get up!" Thirty yards away, and the thing was already there, and he was too late. Twenty yards, and it had picked Sam up and was running into the forest on the other side of the parking lot.

"NO!_" _John screamed, his voice tortured. He tripped a little as he reached the car, seconds too late. The world seemed to stop for a moment, because the unthinkable had happened, and Sammy was gone.

His soul felt torn in two: should he stay or go? But he couldn't lose two sons, not both of them, and Dean needed him too. Feeling like a traitor, he turned his back on the woods, on the creature, on his baby boy, and gently lifted Dean into his arms.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down, allowing his training as a marine to take over. His anger and fear wouldn't help him get Sam back. He would save that for later. Now, all he needed was to get to work.

"Dean, are you okay?" His own voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere else, cold and composed and methodical.

"My head hurts." It wasn't a whine or a complaint, it was merely a report. Sure now that Dean was all right, John broke into a run.

When he reached the lodge headquarters, he stormed in, hoping the owners were there. "Somebody call the police!" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wasn't sure why he had said them. There was nothing that the police could do to help him, but it seemed like the kind of thing you were supposed to do in situations like this. The woman, Elizabeth, came running out in a panic.

"What happened? We heard noises…"

"I just got back," John found himself lying smoothly, "and my room door was opened, and Sa—I mean, Matthew, my younger son, was missing. Now, I need to go and find him. Can you watch Neil for a moment?"

Even to himself, he sounded strangely detached, too polite, showing none of the panic he was feeling, but he was glad for it. Even now—especially now—he knew he couldn't let them know the truth about their identities.

John caught Dean looking up at him, but he didn't contradict this new version of the story. Elizabeth came forward and pulled Dean out of his arms. "I'll take care of him, you go."

"I'm going with you." Her husband, David, stepped forward and John didn't waste the time to argue, even though he really didn't want the extra help.

"Fine. You go north, I'll go south," he said. His best guess was that the thing would take Sam south, away from the people near the lodge. He took one last look at Dean, hating himself for abandoning his boy, then hurried off into the woods.

It didn't really take him long to find his son. Sam was screaming his lungs out, and that made for an excellent trail once he was within hearing range. John paused just long enough to reload the shotgun; obviously, salt didn't slow it down, and iron hadn't seemed to do any good. All he had left were silver bullets, and that seemed as unlikely to work as the other two. However, he didn't let his doubt slow him down even minutely. He moved forward quickly and purposefully. All he could think was that he was _not_ losing his son tonight.

He swiftly caught up with the screaming. The thing had stopped in a small clearing, and was holding a frenzied Sam at arm's length. The creature couldn't seem to figure out how to get him to shut up. He was shaking him from side to side, roaring at the little boy.

That was when John emerged fluidly into the clearing.

On some level, it must have seen John as a threat. Perhaps it could feel his anger, or maybe it remembered the bite of the bullets from John's gun. Either way, it pulled Sam back against its body, holding him by the shirt collar. Its claws dug into Sam's shoulder, and the little boy screamed in pain. He was nearly hysterical, big gulping sobs making him cough.

Something in John broke: the Marine was gone, the hunter was gone, and all that was left was the father. To see his little boy screaming, bleeding, was more than he could handle. He put aside all rational thought and rushed the creature, forgetting he held a gun in his hand, forgetting he was just a man, and launched himself at it. Perhaps out of shock at John's sheer stupidity, the creature backed up a step. A feral yell escaped John's throat, and he used the gun to hit the creature's arms. It dropped Sam, who landed roughly on his behind and stayed where he was, screeching at the top of his lungs. John tried to push the creature back, away from Sam, hitting every inch of it that he could reach.

Then something clicked in the back of his mind, and he remembered he was holding a gun. He maneuvered it around, slammed the barrel into the creature's gut, and pulled the trigger.

A hit like that would have killed a normal animal, would have ripped it apart, but this was no normal animal. The creature leapt back, roaring in pain and rage. For a moment it stared at John, and in that moment, John was sure he was dead. Then, inexplicably, the creature seemed to decide he wasn't worth the trouble. It gave one last malevolent snarl, and took off running in the other direction.

John didn't take the time to be grateful or to wonder about what had just happened. He turned around and scooped Sam into his arms. The little boy wrapped his arms around John's neck tightly, sobbing into his father's shoulder. John held on to him like a life preserver, and he wasn't sure he would ever be able to really let go. He ran a hand through Sammy's hair.

"Shh, baby, I'm here, I've got you," he whispered. "Let me look at you."

He pulled Sam back a little. There was a long, shallow cut along his collarbone where the claws had scratched him, but he looked otherwise unharmed. Sammy only allowed a momentary examination before he reached his arms back around John's neck, his little body wracked with sobs. It almost broke John's heart to listen to it. He embraced his son readily, moving out of the forest as quickly as he could. When he reached the parking lot, he unlocked the Impala and deposited Sam inside.

"Can you stay here for me, son?"

"Don't leave me, Daddy!" his big green eyes were full of tears, his cheeks puffy and red. His plea tore at John's heart, but he put a steadying hand on Sam's shoulder. "I can't let them see you hurt like this. The cops will never let us get out. I just gotta go get Dean, then we're out of here, okay? Be brave. I'll be right back."

Sammy started sobbing again. It was a heart-rending sound, but there was no way around it. He had to leave Sam, just for a moment.

Trying to ignore Sam's tears, John closed the door and locked it, then took off at a run to the lodge headquarters. Dean was sitting on a chair, looking panicked, holding an ice pack to his head. The instant John came in, he dropped the ice pack and ran to John, who fell to one knee and quickly embraced his boy. "Come on, we're going."

The lodge owner's wife came out of the back room, carrying a glass of water. She looked surprised at John's arrival. "Did you find your son?" she asked hopefully.

"Thanks for your help," John said curtly. "We're leaving."

He turned before she could say anything, knowing Dean would follow.

Thirty seconds later, they were on the road, and it was only then that he realized he had left the lodge owner out in the woods, and that he had never explained that he found his son, and that there would undoubtedly be a police investigation to look into the little boy's "disappearance." It wasn't until he finally stopped to sleep at a crummy hotel in Colorado that he realized he had left behind some of the boys' clothes and one of Bobby's books stuffed with some pictures of himself and the boys. And it wasn't until later that year that he found out "Matthew Smith" was still considered missing.

He spent the next year trying to help the boys forget about the ordeal. They never discussed it. Dean never asked about it. And by the time they were celebrating Sam's seventh birthday, Sam was making up stories about where the cool scar on his shoulder came from and Dean was convinced the event was just a bad dream, one of a million nightmares he had had since the fire.

"And I encouraged that," John said to Dean, hoping the crack in his voice wouldn't carry over the phone. "Because I didn't want you boys to remember it. You had suffered enough already."

He stopped. He had nearly talked himself hoarse. He hadn't heard so much as an "uh-huh" or a "yeah" from Dean for at least a quarter of an hour. He didn't know what to think.

"So you lied to me," Dean finally said.

"I was trying to protect you," John whispered.

"By sending me on this hunt? By not telling me that this creepy Bigfoot thing is…real? I had no idea what I was dealing with! Sam could have been killed!"

"Dean, listen to me," John started.

"No! And tell me why it was so important for me to bring Sam along. You insisted that I bring him. You wouldn't let me go until you knew for sure he would go with me. Why? You knew that the creature had his scent, you knew that if he came anywhere near this area it would be able to track him, and you still…" Dean's voice trailed off. John winced. He could practically see the wheels turning in Dean's head. He knew how his son thought through things. And he knew that Dean had just figured out the one thing he hoped he'd never find out about.

"That's why. You knew the creature would go after him. You sent him here as _bait_?"

"Dean, I'm trying to protect him!"

"How? By putting him in danger?"

"By getting him back into the hunt, back into practice! He needs to be able to look out for himself. And he's not safe at school, you know that just as well as I do. Even on a hunt, he's safer with you or me than he is back in Palo Alto."

There was a pause. John wished he could see Dean's face so that he could try to figure out what his son was thinking.

"Dad, I gotta go. I gotta try to talk to Sam, try to explain this."

"Dean, you have to understand why I did this."

"Explain it to me later." There was a beep and the line went dead. John slowly closed the phone and rubbed at his forehead.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

* * *

A/N: Hey everyone! So here's my round of thanks for this chapter: special thanks to my mom and my old roommate, who helped me work out numerous issues with this chapter; to spinners0end, who read approximately four drafts (you're amazing!!); to jenilee and rozzy07, whose detailed reviews helped me tighten up a few loose ends; to Onthnis, friendly, and MDarKspIrIt for your encouragement; and to all the rest of you who are still reading. You guys are awesome. :)


	6. Chapter 5

**Open Secrets**

Chapter 5

Sam's eyes fluttered open, only to be almost instantly blinded by a brilliant shaft of sunlight. He turned his head to the side to get out of the light, and dragged a heavy hand up. He wiped clumsily across his face and ran his hand through his hair, which was tangled and full of leaves and twigs and mud.

He sat up stiffly, careful not to move his injured leg more than necessary. Still only wearing his flannel shirt, he shivered slightly in the early-morning chill and rubbed at his eyes. In the chaos of the previous night, he hadn't taken time to be very observant, so it was almost as if he were seeing his surroundings for the first time. The walls were smooth rock and slightly curved, making the small cave roughly circular. Smooth, packed dirt formed the hard ground he had slept so uncomfortably on. He scratched at the back of his head in puzzlement. There was no way this cave was natural. There was something man-made in the geometry of it: the walls were too perfectly straight and vertical, the ground too flat.

Of most interest was the source of the shaft of sunlight that had awoken him. It was the only thing that lit up the otherwise damp, dim cave, and it instantly drew Sam's attention. If he was seeing natural light, maybe that meant he could find a way out of here.

He glanced to his left. Jordan was curled up in Sam's jacket, snoring softly. Sam thought about waking him up, but decided against it. It had been a long night for the both of them. Sam had tried to stay awake for the first hour or so. He didn't want to pass out again as he had after setting his leg. He knew it wasn't likely, but if Dean showed up he wanted to be ready to go. Despite his efforts, he must have dozed off at some point.

Clearly, though, Dean had not come. Sam couldn't say he was really surprised. After the fight they had last night, he couldn't be sure that Dean would even know he was missing yet. He looked around the cave, hoping he had somehow managed to keep hold of his backpack, but it was nowhere to be seen. He swore softly. His cell phone had been inside the pack, along with extra sets of clothes. He could really use both right about now.

He sighed. He was used to having bad luck like this, but it didn't make it any easier to swallow. With no way to contact anyone, the only thing left to him was trying to escape.

He stiffly pushed himself to his feet, using the cave wall as a support. He put all his weight on his uninjured leg, knowing the makeshift splint wouldn't be enough to support him. He was forced to hunch over slightly; the ceiling of the cave was only about six feet tall. His movement woke Jordan, who sat up and blinked in the sunlight streaming into the cave.

"Sam?"

Sam didn't answer at first, too busy examining the source of the light. There was a tunnel about five feet in diameter that led to the surface. Sam limped his way toward the tunnel so that he could get a better look. He guessed the surface was a good four feet above his head, making this section of the cave the only part he could stand in comfortably. The top of the hole appeared to be covered with what Sam could only describe as a trap door: the sunlight was coming in through gaps in the wooden planks.

Jordan came up beside him, staring up the hole. "He closed it again."

"Huh?" Sam said. He had almost forgotten that Jordan was standing behind him.

"The bad guy closed the door. He does that every day. He keeps it open for a little while, and then he closes it."

Sam nodded absently, staring up. He was trying to guess if he'd be able to pull himself up just with his hands; even though he had one good leg, he doubted it'd be much help for anything but balancing him.

"Do you think we can get out?" Jordan asked with a tremble in his voice. Instead of answering, Sam gripped a protruding tree branch about two feet above his head. He grunted, using just his arms to pull himself up. When he was close enough, he tentatively reached up and grabbed another branch a little further up. Then, letting go of the protruding root, he reached up and gripped the trapdoor, forcing his fingers into the gaps between the planks.

Now hanging several feet above the ground, he searched for a toehold with his uninjured left leg in the rough wall of the tunnel. He forced his shoe into a chink, allowing some of his weight to rest on the foot. Once he was reasonably certain he could maintain his balance, he carefully changed his grip on the trapdoor so that he could push upward. To his surprise, the door went up just a few inches, as if it were on a hinge.

"Ha!" he said triumphantly. He couldn't believe his luck. He glanced down at Jordan. "I think we might just make it out of here, buddy!"

"Yes!" Jordan said.

Sam pushed at the trapdoor again, trying to swing it all the way open, but it only seemed to be able to open a few inches.

Unconsciously, he shifted his foot, trying to get a better angle at the trapdoor. And then the smile melted off his face as his the chink he was using as a foothold suddenly broke off.

"Oh, crap."

He tried to grab at the plank in the trapdoor, but his fingers slid through. He bounced violently down the incline and landed flat on his back on the solid floor of the cave, his breath whooshing out of him, his broken leg banging forcefully against the ground.

He took several deep breaths, trying to ignore the stabs of pain in his leg. Then he looked resentfully up the tunnel, his anger boiling just below the surface. He could almost see any chance of escaping this hellhole fluttering up into the too-cheerful sunshine above them.

He swore, slamming his fist into the ground. This, of course, only gave him a whole new pain to deal with, and he instantly regretted his outburst.

He sat up slowly and checked to make sure that the splint hadn't come apart in the fall. By some miracle, it had stayed intact: it seemed to be the only bit of good news he was going to get today. He let out a long, slow breath, trying to let his anger and frustration dissipate through it. He glanced up at Jordan, who was curled up in the corner, looking frightened. Sam sighed, genuinely sorry that he'd scared the kid.

"Jordan," he said softly. If he could have, he would have gotten up and gone to sit next to the boy, but after the fall he wasn't sure he wanted to try standing, much less walking. "I'm sorry, okay?"

Jordan didn't respond for a moment. "You can't get us out of here, can you?"

Sam swallowed. What were you supposed to do with kids? Lie, or tell the truth? He supposed hedging seemed like a good option. "Do you have any brothers or sisters, Jordan?"

"No."

"Well," Sam said. "I do. I have a crazy brother, and he's always telling me he's gonna look out for me. Kind of gets annoying sometimes, you know?"

Jordan sniffed and ran a grubby hand across his nose, but he didn't say anything.

"So, see," Sam continued. He winced as he inadvertently moved his leg. "Dean's gonna come running in here, any minute now, all ready to save us."

"How's he going to find us?" Jordan said softly.

Sam sighed. "He'll…" he started, but he couldn't think of a single way Dean might find him, even if he did figure out Sam was gone.

Jordan's face fell a little when Sam didn't come up with a solid response. Sam felt that he wasn't doing a very good job of cheering the kid up. So instead he put on a big fake smile.

"He'll find us because that's just how he is."

Jordan nodded, but Sam wasn't sure that Jordan really believed him.

"I give up," Sam said under his breath. He couldn't get out of here on his own; he might as well try to figure out what was going on until they got rescued or…well, he didn't want to think about an alternative. Instead, he decided to focus on something he could handle: research.

"You said he opens the door everyday, right?"

Jordan nodded. "At night, usually. Yesterday, I asked him for a sweatshirt, because it gets so cold at night, but he didn't give me one. Instead he threw you down here."

Sam couldn't really read the kid's tone: was he disappointed or relieved? So he decided to gloss over it.

"And you haven't seen anyone, other than me, have you?"

Jordan cocked his head. "No. Why would I?"

"No reason," Sam said. He was remembering the newspaper clipping, that two other people had gone missing just in the time that he and Dean had been here. "I just thought that maybe—"

He cut off sharply. He'd heard a noise just above them, somewhere near the trapdoor. He glanced over at Jordan, whose eyes were wide. Sam brought his index finger up to his mouth, signaling Jordan to stay still. Of course, Sam himself didn't have much of a choice: he had to stay still.

A brown paper bag landed on the ground with _thunk_. Sam nodded at Jordan, who quickly moved to retrieve it. He brought it over to Sam, who looked inside. There were two sandwiches, a bottle of water, and two apples.

Sam stared at the food in utter bewilderment. He had seen some strange things happen hunts before, but he couldn't quite figure out how to deal with this unexpected turn of events. Never, in his lifelong career of hunting supernatural predators, had he ever known one to deliver a brown bag lunch.

"What?" Jordan asked.

"This is just too weird," Sam said, looking suspiciously at the bag. "Why would it give us food?"

Jordan shrugged, looking longingly at the sandwich.

"It must want to keep us alive for some reason," Sam said, answering his own question. "Right?" He glanced at Jordan, who looked slightly alarmed at being asked a direct question.

"I don't know," he said vaguely. "But I'm hungry, so do you think…"

"But it's a creature!" Sam burst out impatiently. "It might be a smart hunter, but it wouldn't think things out like that. And it definitely wouldn't package it up all nice like this. It's an animal, after all, not a person."

Jordan shrugged. "We might as well eat it though, right?"

Sam rubbed the back of his neck uncertainly. He doubted there was anything wrong with it, seeing as how Jordan had been here for over a week, eating these packaged meals, and was just fine. Besides, he was hungry. He'd rather take the risk and deal with the consequences.

"Eat up, I guess," he said hesitantly. He took a sandwich out of the bag and took a bite. Even as he realized how grateful he was for the food, he couldn't help looking up at the little hole.

"You couldn't have tossed down some Advil while you were at it, could you?" he muttered.

i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!

_The creature was yards away, and picking up speed. "Get under the car!" Dean said quickly, on sudden inspiration. _

_"No!" Sammy squealed._

_"Do it!" Dean commanded. He turned his head to catch Sam's eye, and in that small distraction, the creature was suddenly right there. Dean backed up, trying to protect Sam, and tripped over Sam's foot. His head hit the car, and he hit the ground hard, dazed._

_"Dean, get up!" Sam sobbed, pulling on his arm. He tried, but he was finding it difficult to focus. He stared at Sam's feet, his ears ringing. Suddenly, Sam screamed, and his feet disappeared. Dean looked up just in time to see the creature running away, a screaming Sam slung over one shoulder. _

_"No!" It was his father's voice, but it seemed to come from far away. "No!"_

"NO!"

Dean came awake with a jolt, his heart racing. For a moment he was utterly disoriented, unsure what had awakened him. Then the dream washed over him and he tried to suppress a shudder. The panicked scream of the toddler-Sam echoed through his mind. He couldn't drive it away. He brought a shaking hand up and scrubbed at the sheen of sweat over his face.

He stumbled to the bathroom sink and splashed a handful of water on his face. He couldn't seem to get his hands to stop shaking. He hadn't had the dream since he was a kid, maybe ten or eleven years old, and he had stopped mentioning it to his dad by the time he was seven or eight. Dad had always gone to such lengths to convince Dean that the nightmare wasn't real. Now, the reason for his father's vehemence was obvious. Dean shook his head dejectedly. Just one more of the many secrets of John Winchester. He doubted he'd ever know the whole story.

He turned off the water faucet and pushed a hand through damp hair. He ambled back to the front of the room. He must have fallen asleep trying to plow through one of his dad's books. The book had somehow fallen off the table as Dean came awake; now, it was on the floor upside down, the pages bent underneath it. He kneeled and picked it up, scrubbing at his eyes.

Dean had tried to work on the case as much as he could, hoping Sam would call or come back, but there was really very little he could do, seeing as how Sam's backpack, and therefore Sam's notes, were with Sam. Sam's absence and refusal to answer his cell were now officially holding up Dean's investigation. The night before, he had felt guilty about the way Sam had discovered their role in this hunt's history. But now, he was just angry. If the kid didn't want to talk to him, fine. Dean could deal with that. He knew Sam wouldn't be able to ignore him forever. But the fact was, people's lives were in danger, and Sam's pouting was only going to cause more people harm.

"That's it," he said, past the point of exasperation. He glanced at his watch: it was past noon. He'd given Sam plenty of time to cool off. He pulled out his phone and dialed Sam's number.

"Hi, this is Sam. Leave me a message."

The phone beeped and Dean angrily launched into his tirade. "Sam? It's Dean. I already left you a message, and I tried to apologize before. If you don't want to deal with that, fine, whatever. But we have to finish the job, and you have all the notes in your freakin' backpack, so if you don't answer or get back here in the next hour, I'm gonna make you regret. Got it?" He snapped his phone closed in anger. Stupid little brothers.

He snatched up his jacket, thinking he could at least find someone to interview to while he waited for Sam to call back, and stomped out the door.

To his surprise, there were two cops standing in the parking lot, both staring off into the woods. Excellent. He didn't even have to go looking for someone to talk to. He moseyed up to them and caught the end of their conversation.

"I swear, I heard it right in there somewhere," the shorter cop said.

"Nash, you're hearing things."

"Could be evidence," Nash insisted. "Let's see if we can find it."

"What're you looking for, Officers?" Dean said as he came up behind them. "Got some evidence?"

The two cops turned to glare at Dean. "No," the other cop said. His nametag read "Longman" and he looked very unhappy to see Dean standing there. "Who are you?" he asked bluntly.

"Oh, just a guy doing a documentary," Dean said breezily. "I _was_ going to ask you gentlemen if you knew anything about the ongoing investigation. I need a few interviews from authority figures. But since you say you don't know anything…"

He stuck his hands in his jacket pockets and turned toward the Impala, moving slowly enough that the cops could…

"Wait!"

Bingo.

Dean turned around. "Yeah?"

Nash looked at Longman. "We've been working on this investigation for a few weeks now. You could interview us, if you want."

Dean mentally smirked, but kept his face straight. "That'd be great." He walked back toward the officers, withdrawing a notepad from his pocket. He had no intention of writing anything down, but he found it made him look more valid.

"So, first off, have you guys found any new evidence recently? Are you any closer to identifying a suspect?"

The cops exchanged a sheepish look. "Er…," Nash started.

"We're not actually certain we're dealing with a criminal here," Longman said, clearly trying to sound authoritative. "Based on forensics reports, we think it more likely to be an animal, perhaps a sick animal."

Dean pretended to scribble on his notepad. "Interesting. So how do you account for the fact that victims tend to go missing days or even weeks before they're discovered?"

"Well, uh," Nash stuttered. "We think it likely that victims are often lost for a while before they're attacked."

Dean nodded. "So the police think it's just a coincidence that all of the most recent missing persons cases have ended in an 'animal attack?'"

"Well—" Longman began.

"And do the police also have a good reason for why there has been a sudden upswing in the number of missing persons cases in this area?"

Both officers glanced at each other, and then back at Dean.

"It's an on-going investigation," Nash finally said.

"But not a very good one," Dean stated, trying not to grin. There were few things as enjoyable as baiting cops.

And it was working. The cops were clearly starting to get angry. "Now what is that supposed to mean?" Longman said harshly.

"Just that I've been around her for a good week and a half," Dean lied easily, "and I haven't seen a single cop car out here. It just sort of seems like you're not doing a very good job. I mean, what if it's not an animal?"

Neither cop seemed interested in giving an answer to that. Nash scratched at his nose. "Well, there is one thing…"

Longman glared at the younger officer. "I already told you, that's the stupidest idea—"

"What?" Dean asked quickly.

Nash glanced at his partner, who glared at him. "I don't know if you've noticed," Nash said conspiratorially, "but a lot of the missing persons have…criminal records." He paused, as if waiting for a reaction. Dean didn't say anything. "So maybe," Nash continued darkly, "the police aren't really doing much because they don't _want_ much done."

Dean's eyebrows knitted. Actually, he hadn't noticed that any of the victims had a criminal record, but that didn't really surprise him. That was the kind of thing geek-boy was supposed to pick up on.

"So you think that the cops are just _letting_ someone target criminals, is that it?" Dean asked, pretending to sound a little dubious. "No offense, but that seems a little out there."

"That's because it is," Longman growled.

"Especially since the last two that went missing were both little kids," Dean added.

"Well, not them," Nash said impatiently. "But that woman that went missing had been charged with identity theft."

"And she was cleared of the charge, which is why it's no longer on her record," said Longman irritably.

"And one of the little boys went missing with his grandfather, who served time for motor vehicle theft," Nash continued on stubbornly. "And the first guy that went missing was charged with vandalism."

"When he was seventeen years old," Longman argued. "And the other guy did his time and hasn't done anything wrong since. You have absolutely nothing to go on."

The cops were both a little red in the face. Dean waited to see if the argument was over before he spoke up. "So…the cops _are_ working on this, then."

Both officers turned angry glares at Dean.

"Please be assured," Longman said stiffly, "that the police department is doing the best it can."

"Sure," Dean said skeptically. He slapped his notepad closed. "Thanks for your time, officers. But I'm not sure you have enough information to merit an on-screen interview."

Both cops glared at him. Dean rubbed at the stubble on his chin, as if deep in thought. "Unless…" he said.

"What?" Nash snapped.

"Unless you wanted to tell me what you were looking at when I first came out here."

Longman rolled his eyes. "We weren't looking at anything. Nash here thinks he heard a cell phone ringing out in the forest. That's all."

Dean turned his attention to Nash. "Cell phone, huh?"

Nash jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Thought I heard it out in the forest," he said dully, clearly wanting to be rid of Dean.

"Mind if I take a look?" Dean asked casually.

"Knock yourself out," Longman snapped. "You won't find anything. There's nothing out there."

Dean turned and headed into the forest. He didn't really expect to find anything, but he didn't really have anything better to do either, so he wandered into the trees, trying to look around for some kind of trail or clue.

By the time he was far enough in that he could no longer hear the cops arguing, he was ready to call it quits. He hadn't found anything. He was wasting time. Surely he could find some other source to pump for information. That'd be better than doing nothing here.

He glanced at his watch. It was just after one o'clock. He'd given Sam his hour. Now there was no excuse. Anger started to bubble up in Dean's chest even as he quickly dialed Sam's number. He turned back toward the lodge and began the trek back through the woods.

But then he slowly lowered the phone from his ear. He thought he had heard…but that couldn't be it. The denseness of the forest must be messing with his hearing, or something. But then he heard it again, as he took another few steps forward.

There was a phone ringing somewhere. Suddenly, it stopped.

"Hi, this is Sam. Leave me a message."

Dean hung up quickly, horrified. Then he pressed redial, hoping that he was wrong, hoping…

But then he heard it again, that faint ringing, and he took off running in the direction it was coming from. It took him dialing Sam's number three times before he found it, but there it was, Sam's backpack, looking muddy and a little smashed, but otherwise intact. Dean dug through the front pocket quickly and found Sam's cell inside, ringing merrily. He picked it up and flipped it open. Sam had over a dozen missed calls.

Dean slowly stuffed the phone back inside the pack and zipped it closed. He ran a hand through his hair and then over his face.

He stood quickly, holding the backpack by one strap, and stared around at the trees, as if expecting to see Sam striding toward him. But there was no one there.

"Sam!" Dean shouted desperately.

His only answer was the rustle of the trees in the soft breeze.

!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i

"Favorite book?"

Sam considered for a moment. "Tough one. But I'd have to say…To Kill a Mockingbird. Atticus Finch is part of what made me want to be a lawyer."

"I never heard of it," Jordan said. "But my Dad read me a Hardy Boys book once. Is it like that?"

Sam snorted. "Um, no. Not even a little." He paused. "Favorite movie."

"Jurassic Park," Jordan answered instantly. "Dinosaurs are so cool! Especially T-rex."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "No way. The raptors are the coolest. T-rex can't even use those stubby little arms."

"Yeah, but he's really big. He can like, eat people. Or step on them with his huge feet."

"Dude, those big feet are the only thing he's got going for him."

"That's all you need when you're as awesome as T-rex," Jordan said dogmatically.

Sam chuckled but didn't bother to argue.

"Favorite superhero," Jordan said.

Sam paused. "I don't know. I haven't really had one since I was a kid."

Jordan wrinkled his nose skeptically. "Everyone has a favorite superhero. Just think about who you would want to be."

"Well, in that case, I guess I'd be Spiderman," Sam said. "He can go around saving people, but he also has a normal life on the side, normal family, normal girlfriend, he can be smart and go to school, and no one tells him he should have to give all that up."

"And his suit's awesome," Jordan said. "Way cooler than Superman's. Plus, he's got his Spidey sense."

"There is that," Sam agreed with a chuckle.

"So who was your favorite when you were my age?" Jordan asked.

"Nah, you don't want to hear about that," Sam said quickly. "It was a long time ago. Long story."

The cave was silent for a moment. But only for a moment. "I'm bored," Jordan said. "Tell me about it."

Sam blew out a long breath. "Okay, well…when I was a kid," he started slowly, "my dad would leave, and be gone for days at a time. He'd leave my big brother in charge. No one would ever tell me where Dad went or why we moved around all the time. Dean would always just tell me to stop asking, but that just made me more curious."

He paused. He'd never told anyone about this. It wasn't the kind of thing that Dean would have been willing to listen to without shooting off a smart aleck comment.

"Once, Dean told me that our dad was a superhero, and that was why he had to go away all the time, and for a long time, I believed him. My dad was my favorite superhero when I was a kid. I was pretty sure he could have taken down Spiderman or Superman or Batman." Sam paused. "Well, maybe not Batman." He grinned, and Jordan grinned back.

Sam didn't speak for a moment, lost in his own thoughts.

"So…" Jordan said. "Why isn't your dad your hero anymore?"

Sam picked up a pebble off the ground and tossed it at the wall. When he spoke again, his voice was harder than he meant it to be. "Because one day I realized that if he were a superhero, he wouldn't need to train his sons to be his sidekicks."

Sam felt a little guilty to have brought up his father, and the bad vibe that seemed to go with it. He'd spent the whole day trying to keep himself and Jordan occupied and distracted, but with happy memories and jokes, not John Winchester stories.

"So that's good news for us, though," Jordan said thoughtfully, after a good ten minutes.

"What is?" Sam said, having lost the train of the conversation. The closeness of the cave and the impending darkness had a strong effect on him. He was becoming drowsy. He let his head rest on the stone wall behind him.

"If your dad trained his sons to be superheroes, doesn't that mean your brother is a superhero?" Jordan said. "That means he can definitely save us."

Sam smiled. "Just don't let him hear you say that."

There was a rustling noise outside that effectively stifled any conversation. Jordan glanced up at the trapdoor quickly, and then at Sam.

"What is that?" he whispered. "Could it be your brother?"

Somehow, Sam doubted it. Dean would have come in with a flashlight and a shotgun, yelling Sam's name. His heartbeat picked up, and he wished the cave were just a little bit lighter.

The trapdoor above opened with a whine and a clank, and then there was a person, carefully climbing down through the tunnel. Sam squinted, trying to see, but it was too dark to make out who the person might be. Jordan pushed a little closer to Sam, and Sam unconsciously flung an arm out, as if he could protect the boy with just an arm.

"Who are you?" Sam said loudly, trying to sound threatening.

"Well, well, well," the stranger said softly, dropping nimbly into the cave. His voice was grainy and low, and somehow familiar. "If it isn't Sammy Winchester."

Sam swallowed. "How do you know who I am?"

The stranger chuckled, leaning against the cave wall nonchalantly. "Well, that's an interesting story. It took me a long time to figure it out, actually. Your dad was smart to use fake names. But I have friends and connections, too, and I eventually learned who you really are. It wasn't as hard as I expected, actually. You Winchesters are pretty conspicuous, for hunters."

Sam's gut clenched a little. "How did you…" he started, but his voice trailed off, unsure of exactly what he was planning to ask.

"How did I figure out who you are?" the stranger asked dangerously. "Young father, traveling with his sons, driving a '67 Impala? Even twenty years ago you didn't see too many cars like that."

Sam frowned, his mind racing. Twenty years ago? This man had to be connected to the killings from the first time they were here…

"Or maybe you're wondering how I knew you were hunters?" the man asked. He seemed to be fiddling with something small and square, but it was almost completely dark in the cave now, and all Sam could see was the stranger's silhouette. "That was a lot easier to figure out. I knew that the moment your dear old dad shot me full of silver bullets."

Sam had hardly a moment to wonder how this man could have survived such a thing before the cave was suddenly filled with a blindingly bright bluish-white light. Sam instinctively shut his eyes against the brilliance of what he now realized must be a fluorescent lantern. He heard a faint whimpering, and he patted Jordan's shoulder in what he hoped was a consoling way.

The man turned around, and Sam let out a little gasp. The light threw everything in the cave into very sharp relief, making the lined face appear hollow and sinister, but Sam still recognized him.

"Mr. Snow?" he whispered in shock.

"Kinda slow on the uptake, are we?" Snow said sinisterly. "And my informants said you were the smart one. But then again, I'm guessing daddy dearest doesn't know who I am, or what I can do. If he did, he'd have killed me a long time ago, and he sure wouldn't'a sent you two idiots straight out to my house your first day here, driving that car." He paused, grinning, apparently enjoying the moment, while Sam tried to think fast. Was it possible that all along, he and Dean had been hunting…a human? That didn't make sense; it was a creature, he knew it, had seen it…

"When I saw that car out there," Snow continued, shaking his head, "I couldn't believe it. Right there on my drive. '67 Chevy Impala. The Winchesters' home away from home, am I right? 'Course, I was a little disappointed to see you two boys sitting on my couch instead of old Johnny himself, but that's okay. I can get to him through you."

The man gave a feral grin. Sam saw his fist flash, but he had nowhere to go, no way to dodge and no time to block. He took the hit full in the face, just under his right eye.

Sam's head rang, and he brought up an arm to fend off additional blows. But thankfully, none landed. Rather, Snow had backed off several steps and was now sitting cross-legged on the dirt floor.

"Sam?" Jordan whimpered.

"Go sit over there, buddy," Sam said, gesturing at the section of cave farthest from the deranged psychopath.

"Sorry you have to share the cave with the kid," Snow said, sounding quite unapologetic. "But all the other caves were taken." He grinned, and Sam wasted a full fifteen seconds trying to decide if the statement was a bad joke, or if Snow really did have other caves full of unlucky captives.

"So this is how this usually works," Snow said, and to Sam's surprise, he whipped out a small wire-bound notepad. "I tell you what I suspect you have done, and you tell me if you agree."

Sam shook his head in confusion. "Excuse me?"

Snow closed the little notepad with a _slap_ and sighed heavily, as if disappointed in Sam's response. "Sam, you would be surprised to find out something about our justice system. You _have_ to have evidence before you can arrest someone. It's a little ridiculous, actually. I mean, you could know for a _fact_ that someone has committed a crime, but if you don't have _evidence_, they could just go free forever, wreaking havoc all the way. For example," he said, reopening his notepad, "I happen to know that you, not to mention your brother and father and all the other hunters, have committed some pretty serious crimes. Tell me if I've missed anything." He glanced down at his notes. "Various traffic violations, destruction of private property, burglary, breaking and entering, armed robbery, motor vehicle theft, credit card fraud, impersonation of government officials, arson, kidnapping, and murder."

Sam stared at him in disbelief. "You're crazy, man."

"Are you saying you're innocent?" Snow asked darkly.

Sam fidgeted a little. "I never kidnapped anyone, and I'm not a murderer."

"Never killed, have you?"

Sam squirmed. He preferred to think about the unique moral dilemmas associated with hunting in his free time, and not in the presence of madmen. "That's different. I've never killed a human. What I do, what hunters do, it's not murder. We're saving people."

"I'm human," Snow growled. "And your dad tried to kill me."

Snow stood suddenly. Sam wondered if the lantern was beginning to dim, and then he realized that it wasn't the light getting darker, it was Snow. His thick silver hair was darkening and thickening, and dark hair was growing on his arms and face. Snow grimaced a little, and the process stopped, then reversed. After a moment, he was back to normal. He grunted and cricked his neck.

"Still hurts," he muttered under his breath.

In the back of his mind, Sam registered that Jordan had begun crying softly at some point, but he didn't have the time to deal with it now. Instead, Sam sat back in shock. "Dean was right the first time. You're a Skinwalker."

"You say you're saving people?" Snow asked. "That's what I'm doing too. You should have done a little more research, Sammy, and then you'd know. None of the people who have gone missing are innocents. They deserved what they got."

Sam's temper flared. "What about Jordan? He's just a kid."

Snow shrugged indifferently. "Wrong place, wrong time. He saw me."

"And all those people you killed? Are they as guilty as he is?" Sam shouted.

Snow smiled ominously. "They were as guilty as _you_ are. And they all admitted it, sooner or later. Just like you will."

Snow moved forward so quickly that Sam didn't have anywhere to go. The first blow, a backhanded slap, left Sam wondering how much of this treatment he'd be able to handle.

By the time the second blow landed, he wasn't lucid enough to wonder anything at all.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for sticking with me, everyone! Sorry this chapter is a few days late...I had some issues to work out with it. If you have a minute, please review, even if it's just a quick note to say what you're liking or not liking. It really helps me become a better writer. :) And thank you so much to Spinners0end, for agreeing to edit despite her hectic schedule, and to jenilee and friendly for your reviews. You guys really encouraged me to keep going!


	7. Chapter 6

**Open Secrets**

Chapter 6

A sharp, acrid smell had Sam sucking in a harsh breath before he was even coherent enough to really know what he was doing. He coughed and gagged, trying to rid himself of the odor. His eyes flew open and Snow's face slowly came into focus.

Sam groaned and rubbed a hand over his face.

"Oh good, you're awake," Snow said.

The sharp smell was gone now, but the feeling of it remained; the back of his throat felt slightly burned. Sam swallowed hard, coughed again. "What _was_ that stuff?"

"Ammonium carbonate," Snow said, taking a glance at his watch.

"Huh?"

"Smelling salts, kid," Snow said with a touch of boredom. "I have to say, I didn't expect you to be such a lightweight. Two hits and you're out for the count."

Sam scrunched up his face, feeling a little petulant. "Well, it _was_ the second time I've been hit in the head in one day," he muttered defensively.

Snow raised an eyebrow. "Getting grouchy, huh. Well, fine, I don't have all day anyway, so let's wrap this up. Are you ready to admit you're guilty?"

For a moment, Sam didn't respond at all. This was partly because he was still feeling a little loopy from getting hit in the head, but mostly because he just couldn't believe he'd landed in this insane situation.

"Seriously?" Sam finally asked. "You're just gonna keep beating on me until I admit I'm wrong?"

Snow shrugged.

"So you're some kind of vigilante," Sam said. His eyes darted around the room. Maybe if he kept talking, he'd be able to stall long enough to figure out a way out of this mess. "You kidnap these supposed criminals and then you kill them off, is that it?"

Snow shrugged again. "Just doing society a favor. Can you imagine how many people are wandering around out there who should be behind bars?"

"Like you, for starters?" Sam retorted. A fleeting look to his left told him that Jordan had flattened himself against the cave wall, his knees pulled up against his chest, his head buried in folded arms. Sam breathed a sigh of relief. He looked shaken and scared, but physically unharmed. He allowed his gaze to snap back toward Snow. "Look at what you've done. How many people have you kidnapped? How many have you killed?"

Snow's fists clenched. "Those people weren't innocents. They would have gotten away with what they'd done."

Sam scoffed. "That's crap. You had alternatives. You could have turned them over to the cops. And now look at you. You've become a criminal, just like the people you hunt."

Snow's upper lip twitched, as if he were barely containing his anger. "Look who's talking. You_ use_ people. You think the laws don't apply to you?"

Sam swallowed. It'd be easier to argue against Snow if he hadn't so often had these same thoughts himself. There were a lot of things about hunting that he didn't like. He hated breaking into people's homes. He hated cheating people out of money so that his family could keep hunting without having to settle down for a real job.

But now didn't seem like the time to bring up those doubts.

"What we do is important," Sam said evenly. "We save lives, and we don't get paid for what we do. We have to break some laws to keep people safe."

Snow shook his head slightly. "Sorry, kid. That just doesn't cut it. Imagine if everyone thought that way. Chaos." He waved a hand vaguely in mid-air to demonstrate the point.

Sam ground his teeth. He was beginning to get very angry. If he could stand, he would have long ago just taken this guy down. But seeing as how that wasn't an option…

"So are you ready to confess?" Snow asked. "Or do you need a little more persuasion?"

"Why do you want me to confess so badly?" Sam asked, though he could have cared less: understanding the reasoning of a madman was not high on his list of priorities. But he knew a question was more likely to stall Snow than an answer would be.

"Well," Snow said, and he seemed to be honestly considering the question, "two reasons, really."

"Is that right," Sam asked vaguely.

Truthfully, he wasn't paying full attention to Snow. He was trying to catch Jordan's eye. He thought if he could get the kid to distract Snow somehow, Sam might—emphasis on might—be able to get up fast enough to hit him. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was all Sam had at the moment.

"First," Snow said thoughtfully, "it means that you know you've done wrong. And that way you can feel some measure of remorse for what you've done before you die."

"How considerate of you," Sam said dully. Jordan still had his head buried in his arms, and Sam couldn't think of a way to get the kid to look up without alerting Snow.

"And second," Snow continued, "your confession means that I know I'm not punishing an innocent person."

"Trying to keep a clear conscience, are you?" Sam asked. He hadn't meant to, but a very Dean-like tone of fear-fueled sarcasm had crept into his voice.

It appeared to have been a bad decision: Snow's thoughtful expression vanished. He set his jaw and turned anger-filled eyes on Sam.

"Enough stalling," he said harshly. He stood, casting a long shadow in the fluorescent light. "Apparently you _do_ need a little more persuasion." He paused and rubbed at his chin. "Obviously no more blows to the head though. I suppose it's time to get a little more creative."

Sam bit his lip, his heart pounding a painful tattoo against his chest. Creativity didn't sound good.

Snow flexed his fingers, curled them into a fist. "Did you know that Skinwalkers can choose which animal they transform into?"

Sam swallowed. Actually, he had known that. If he remembered correctly, Dad had covered Skinwalkers, shapeshifters, and werewolves during Sam's sixth grade year.

But Snow didn't appear to be interested in an answer. "My animal is the grizzly bear. Did you know that grizzly bears have claws that can be as long as six inches? They're usually used for digging, but they're also very effective for…other purposes."

Jordan whimpered softly, but Sam still heard it from across the cave. His stomach seemed to drop a little. He could deal with all of this. He could even deal with the prospect of dying, if he didn't think about it too hard. But he knew Jordan couldn't.

"Look," Sam said, glancing over at Jordan. "I get that you've got issues with me. But you don't have any reason to keep the kid here. Let him go, and then we'll talk."

Snow shook his head in disappointment. "You know I can't do that. He'd talk. He'd tell people what's really going on here."

"No!" Jordan sniffled. Sam looked over at him. His face was tear-streaked, his eyes swollen from crying. "I wouldn't tell anyone, I promise!"

"He's innocent," Sam said, trying to play to Snow's obvious obsession with the idea. "Let him go."

Snow came forward and crouched down so that he was directly in Sam's line of sight, barely a foot away. "I guess I should have seen this coming," Snow said softly. "Your dad spends your whole life convincing you that you're saving people…I suppose it would be natural you'd want to help the boy?" Snow cupped his chin in his hand and sighed. "I guess that means you're one of those annoying people who'd rather sacrifice themselves than someone else. I had one of those just a few weeks ago."

Sam didn't respond, but he sure didn't like where this line of thinking was going. Neither, apparently, did Jordan. He had stopped crying, but he was staring at Sam with wide eyes.

"Well," said Snow, sounding bored. "Feels a little cliché to me, but whatever works. Sam," he said theatrically, "if you don't confess, I'm gonna have to hurt the kid over there." He cocked his head in Jordan's direction without breaking eye contact with Sam. "Whaddya say?"

Sam dropped his head to his chest, doing his best to look beaten and hopeless. It wasn't a tough sell.

"That's more like it," Snow said with relish. "Now, what do you want to tell me?"

"Okay," Sam whispered, so softly that he barely heard his own voice.

"Didn't quite catch that," Snow said, leaning in slightly.

Which was exactly what Sam had hoped he would do. Instead of answering, Sam put all his fear and fury behind his right fist, landing a solid punch on Snow's left temple. Surprised, Snow lurched back. He seemed a little dazed for a moment, then he sat up and rubbed the spot, working his jaw. Sam took the opportunity to try to stand, but by the time he made it to his feet, Snow had returned the punch. Sam crumpled, hurting more from accidentally putting weight on his leg than from the punch.

Snow took several deep breaths, looking livid. "Maybe another night in here will help you change your mind," Snow spat. Sam didn't look up, but could hear him moving away. "It's supposed to be a cold one."

!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i

Dean flicked his flashlight back and forth across the leaf-strewn ground. Underneath the canopy of thick foliage, it was really too dark to pick up any kind of a clue, even with the flashlight. He knew that he was accomplishing nothing, but he couldn't stand to just sit in his room, alone, and do nothing.

"Sam!" he called out, but it was a half-hearted shout. He'd nearly shouted himself hoarse out here, and he hadn't found anything: no Sam, no trail, no nothing.

He shivered and pulled his jacket tighter around him. It was a chilly night, and even under the thick covering of foliage, his hair and jacket had long ago become sodden from the steady rain. He kicked at the stump of a tree in frustration. The wind had started to pick up, and the rain was coming down harder. He knew he should just call it a night, but he couldn't bring himself to stop looking when Sam could be out there somewhere, waiting for him.

His cell phone rang, and he automatically plunged his hand into his pocket.

"Yeah?"

"Dean?"

It sounded like Bobby, but it was hard to hear in the wind and rain. "Hold on a sec," Dean said, moving quickly toward the parking lot where he hoped he'd get a better signal.

The rain was coming down with a fury out here where the trees didn't provide any cover. He swore softly as his feet splashed through puddles of icy water until he finally made it into his room.

"Dean? You there?"

"Yeah, Bobby, sorry, I'm here," Dean said. He shut the door behind him. "It's really coming down. Where are you?"

"I'll be there in about three hours," Bobby said. "You got anything new for me?"

Dean shed his soaked jacket and pulled off his mud-encrusted boots. "I went out to the Snows' place a couple of hours ago, but it didn't do me any good. The woman was half-conscious when her husband found her. She doesn't remember where the creature stashed her." He paused. "And besides, she's still too spooked to go out there."

"Did you talk to the husband?" Bobby asked. "Maybe he'd remember."

"He wasn't home," Dean said. "His wife says he was out on a hunting trip, should be home in a few days."

"Hunting?" Bobby asked sharply.

"Moose, not demons," Dean answered wryly. He padded across the carpet in wet socks, shivering slightly. He grabbed a mostly clean hand towel off the vanity and scrubbed it through his wet hair and across his face. "But Bobby, I'm like 90 percent sure her husband's up to something, and I'm not sure we can trust her either."

Bobby didn't answer for a moment, and Dean could hear the frown in his voice. "What makes you say that?"

"I think I figured out a pattern," Dean said carefully. "Remember I told you that cop I talked to said that all the victims this time around had criminal records of some kind? Well, I looked up all of the names of the old victims, and almost all of them committed crimes too."

"Dean…" Bobby sighed. "When you told me about the cop's idea, I think the words you used were 'nutcase' and 'conspiracy theory.' And now you want to buy into it?"

Dean squirmed a little, seeing as how Bobby was right. Dean had thought the cop was just trying to get his name mentioned in the "documentary." But he'd had a few hours to do some research, and to his surprise, the theory had paid off.

"I think this is worth checking into, Bobby," Dean said stubbornly.

"Don't you think you might be seeing something that isn't there? I know how badly you want to find Sam, but…"

"Sam fits that pattern," Dean said insistently. "He's committed crimes."

"Dean, creatures don't attack like that. What you're talking about, that's something spirits do. You sure you're dealing with a creature?"

"Positive. Dad saw it, when he was here before. Besides, I have a theory. I think that maybe James Snow is controlling it somehow."

"Controlling it? Dean…"

"I know it sounds a little crazy, but it makes sense!" Dean persisted.

Bobby sighed again. "Son, I wish I could believe you…but what you're saying just doesn't make sense. You don't even know what you're hunting yet. How could you possibly know whether this man could control it?"

Dean flopped bonelessly into the chair next to the table, staring out the rain-drenched window. "Bobby, I know it's a long shot. But I do have some decent evidence. I looked up all the names, right? And they had all been arrested at some point…except James and Michelle Snow and Matthew Smith."

"And Matthew Smith was Sam's alias, when he was a kid, right?"

"Yeah," Dean said, as he looked back over his notes. "So obviously, he wouldn't have any kind of a record. But Sam found out that James Snow used to be a cop, before he got in some serious trouble for planting evidence. Sam thinks he was more interested in putting someone behind bars than he was in making sure justice was carried out."

"So, what, you think he's gone vigilante or something? And he's getting some kind of Bigfoot-looking thing to do his dirty work?" Bobby sounded like he was trying hard not to sound utterly incredulous.

"Well…yeah," Dean said lamely. Less than ten minutes ago, all of this had made perfect sense. But Bobby's doubt was infectious; maybe Dean really was grasping at straws.

There was an uncomfortable pause.

"Look, Dean, I agree that it's more than just coincidence that all the victims have a commonality. And this guy definitely sounds like a prime candidate to be our bad guy. I'm just having a hard time figuring out how he could be controlling the creature, that's all."

"Which is kind of a problem," Dean pointed out pessimistically. "We can't kill it if we don't even know what it is." He tried to control the strain in his voice, but he was nearing desperation. He glanced outside; the rain was coming down even harder, as if attempting to reflect his darkening thoughts.

"Have you talked to your dad?" Bobby asked.

Dean gave a mirthless chuckle. "Oh sure. I called him right after I found Sammy's pack."

"He have anything to say?"

Dean thought back over the call. There had been a liberal amount of cussing followed by a round of blistering accusations, with a copious level of "I knew this was going to happen" and "shoulda just done it myself" and "I _told_ you to watch out for him" sprinkled into the mix.

"Uh…yeah, he had some things to say," Dean answered carefully.

Pause.

"Did he have anything _constructive _to say?" Bobby growled.

"Well…" Dean started. The closest thing to constructive John had mentioned was something along the lines of, "Try not to do anything stupid until I get there." At which point Dean had warily reminded his father that there was no way he _could_ get here, because he couldn't drive on a busted right leg, and even if he did _want_ to try it, they still hadn't replaced the brake pads on the truck, and by the time he managed to find a way out here it would be too late anyway. Which had led to another round of curses and accusations, plus a whole _new_ rant on how important it was to keep _both_ the cars, and not just the Impala, in good repair.

"He…said he'd call back later," Dean finally offered unconvincingly.

Bobby made a noise that was halfway between a disappointed sigh and an angry growl. "We'll talk about it later. For now, you better get some rest, boy. I'm gonna need you sharp when I get there."

"Yes, sir," Dean said automatically.

"I'll give you a call when I'm close."

Bobby hung up and Dean slowly closed his phone. He stared out at the storm for a moment, listening to the wind howl, and hoped Sam wasn't caught out in it.

!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!

Sam curled into a tighter ball, rubbing his arms, trying to force some warmth into them. He was shivering so uncontrollably that his whole body ached; he thought that if he could just _hold still_ for one minute, it would be utter bliss. Forget about the busted leg.Forget about the headache and the thirst and the hunger. _Shivering_, of all things, was the final straw, the thing that was going to do him in.

Except that, come to think of it, he really couldn't even feel his leg anymore. He hoped that this was merely some gift of fate, and that it didn't have anything to do with the fact that his jeans were soaked from the knee down with ice-cold, muddy rain water, but he doubted he could be so lucky.

At least it had stopped raining outside, finally. Or at least he thought it had. It was hard to tell, seeing as how he was stuck underground. It had stopped thundering, and the wind had calmed down. Most importantly, the puddle seemed to have finally stopped growing. Sam hadn't even realized that the floor of their little cave was on such an angle until rainwater trickling down from the entrance tunnel had started to collect in a small pool. Jordan had moved fast enough to stay completely out of the water, but it had taken Sam longer to drag himself across the cave to the higher, drier half, and by the time he made it, his pant legs were saturated.

Sam cupped his hands over his mouth and breathed on them, anything to try to warm himself up. It worked for about ten seconds, and then he was back to that painful, full-body trembling. He glanced at Jordan, who was barely visible under a mountain of khaki jacket. He was still asleep, somehow; Sam could see the gentle rise and fall of Jordan's deep breathing. For the hundredth time, he contemplated waking him up and asking to wear the jacket, just for ten minutes. Scratch that. At this point, he'd settle for five minutes. Three minutes, even. Three minutes without shivering through the relentless cold.

But he couldn't bring himself to do it. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly and curled up on his side. He wished he knew what time it was. It had to be near morning. He'd been thinking that it had to be near morning for the better part of the last four torturous hours, though, so he wasn't sure his judgment was any good. Morning was the goal Sam had set for himself. He could make it til morning. Morning would mean that the puddle might start drying. Maybe the temperature would even go up. Maybe Dean would come. Maybe…

Sam opened his eyes. Was his wishful thinking causing him to imagine that noise, or could it be…

"Sam?" Jordan whispered, sounding anxious. The voice surprised Sam; he hadn't realized the little boy had woken.

Sam forced himself into a seated position. "Come here, buddy," he whispered to Jordan. The boy scrambled over, cowering against Sam's shoulder.

The opening of the trap door sounded ominous with its squeaking hinges. A dark shape slowly lowered itself downward into the cave, splashing down into the puddle. Sam threw a protective arm around Jordan, forcing him back up against the wall. He wasn't sure exactly what was coming, but whatever it was, it couldn't be good.

Sam did his best to look intimidating as Snow hooked the lantern to the ceiling and switched it on. He doubted he'd accomplished his goal, though, based on the unimpressed look Snow was giving him. He wondered if the shivers and the fact that he couldn't stand up had anything to do with that.

"Well, Sammy," Snow said. "Time's up. I imagine you had a long night. You sure you want to drag this out any further? 'Cause, see, here's the thing. With that leg, and the fact that I'm not gonna feed you anymore, you've only got a couple of days anyway. Might as well just end it now."

"Sorry," Sam spat. "Not happening."

Snow rolled his eyes. "Must I threaten the boy again?"

Sam smiled, trying to look smug. "You won't do that."

"Really," Snow said, sounding unconvinced.

"No," Sam answered. "You want to know why?"

Snow threw his arms up. "Enlighten me."

Sam took a deep breath. He really hoped this theory would pay off, because if it didn't, he was practically selling Jordan out. "You won't hurt him. You threatened him last night, but you didn't touch him. It's because you know he doesn't deserve it. You're a monster, but you won't hurt an innocent person."

Sam shivered silently, waiting for a reaction. He'd spent most of the night—between the shivering and the not-sleeping—wondering about the two facts that just didn't seem to add up, and had come up with a reasonable idea. Now he just had to test it.

Snow cocked his head, and Sam saw his self-assurance slip just a little. "You don't think so?"

Sam shook his head. "Last night, you couldn't follow through on your threat. And then I got thinking. Twenty years ago, when all these attacks were first going on, you and your wife were the first ones to go missing. But you were separated from your wife for a while, weren't you? She got locked up in a cave, just like I am now. You know what's really weird about her story though? She says that the creature that tossed her down there kept allowing her to almost escape, but she never made it out until you came and found her."

Snow stared down at Sam. He didn't look nervous, exactly, since he clearly still had the upper hand, but he did look anxious. Like he really didn't want Sam to finish this thought.

Sam plowed on before Snow could say anything. "So I got thinking. Why would you transform, become that creature, and then kidnap your wife? And why would you mess with her mind like that, not allow her to get out? And why, after days of keeping her in a cave, did you transform back into your human self and 'rescue' her?"

Snow's lips were twitching, as if he were trying to hold back his anger. "Shut up," he said, but it came out weak, barely audible.

"But then I figured it out. Because I know how Skinwalkers are created, Mr. Snow." Sam paused. He had suddenly become painfully aware that Jordan was sitting next to him, and that Jordan was just a kid. Did he really want the boy to have this information?

Snow's face looked agonized, and that was what made up Sam's mind for him. His first priority had to be trying to get Jordan out alive. He could deal with the emotional turmoil later.

Sam's shivers picked up slightly, and his voice shook. "The lore says you have to kill someone, Mr. Snow. And the strongest Skinwalkers are the ones who take the life of a close family member."

Snow's wiped a shaking hand across his face. Time to drive the dagger home.

"So how did it go down, exactly, Snow? You killed some poor idiot, but that didn't give you enough power, am I right? You decided you needed more. You decided you needed to kill your wife too."

There was a tense pause. Snow's back was to Sam, making it impossible for Sam to gauge the situation. Had he angered a psychotic killer, or was it possible that he might be able to reason his way out of this nightmare?

"I couldn't finish the transformation," Snow whispered, and Sam could feel the pain in his voice. He might have felt pity for the man, if he hadn't known him to be a killer. "I was…horrible. More bear than man." He looked up at Sam. "You don't understand. I couldn't run or move properly. It was like I was just…_stuck_ halfway between the change. It was agony."

"So you decided to kill your wife. But you couldn't do it."

Snow shook his head. There was a faraway look in his eye, and Sam wondered if he was reliving his memories. "I kept coming back. I was going to do it. But then I just couldn't bring myself to it. I could hear her crying…" his voice trailed off. "I gave it up, finally. I couldn't hurt her." He looked up at Sam, his eyes burning, as if daring Sam to disagree. "I'd rather endure the pain of being half man, half bear than having to…. She was innocent. I did this, I became this _thing_ so that I could punish the people who slipped through the justice system. If I had hurt her, I would have been just like them."

Sam allowed a moment to pass, barely breathing, before he spoke.

"We're like that too," Sam said gently, in his most reasonable voice. "Jordan hasn't done anything wrong. You can't hurt him any more than you could hurt your wife."

Snow's eyes flicked toward Jordan. Sam could see the muscles in his jaw clenching and unclenching.

"Please," Sam said gently. "Let us go."

Snow held his gaze for an eternity, and Sam tasted freedom. But then Snow's face hardened again before Sam could even begin to mentally celebrate. "No. I can't do that. I'm sorry, Sam. Now, I'll give you one last chance. You have your choice. I'm a merciful man. Admit you're guilty, and I'll make it quick. Refuse, and it will take days." He paused. "Either way, you're going to die."

Sam felt his gut clench unpleasantly, but he set his jaw. His chance at freedom had slipped away, a wisp of smoke on the wind. But he was not going to give in so easily.

"No," he said softly, but with as much venom as he could put into the word. "No. I've spent the last two years of my life trying to do normal. I've been at school, like a normal person. I haven't been hunting. I haven't done _any_ of the things that go along with hunting." His voice became stronger, and he could see Snow getting angrier. "I gave up my _family_ to do normal. I've made my mistakes, but that was how I was raised. So, no. I'm not gonna admit I'm wrong. But if I were you, I'd think hard before you do anything to me."

Snow's eyes narrowed. "Are you threatening me? You can't even stand!"

"Yeah," Sam said, feeling a little reckless. "You know why? Because if I don't make it out of this, you're gonna have two seriously pissed off Winchesters coming after you."

Sam took the hit before he was entirely sure what had happened. He ducked his head, but it was too late; it landed full on, hard enough that he immediately worried about damage to the bone around the eye socket. His hand automatically came up to cup the side of his face gently. There was a ringing in his ears, but he thought he heard Snow mutter something about, "I guess family really _does_ mean everything to you hunters."

Sam forced his eyes open; the right was watering with pain, and the left was already swelling, so everything was a little blurry, but there was no mistaking what he was now seeing.

Snow was changing: his shoulders bulged, his hands and feet lengthened. His hair darkened and seemed to spread from his head, across his neck and face, which was jutting outward into a muzzle, down his back. The changes occurred faster and faster, and all the while, the creature that moments ago had been James Snow made small, inhuman sounds: a sort of deep-chested huff, followed by a tortured growl.

A moment later, the transformation was complete. The finished product was grotesque: a mishmash of limbs and muscle which clearly didn't belong together. The muzzle was disproportionately long on a skull which had remained human-sized. Its eyes were small and its ears overly large. It stood on only two legs, which seemed too stubby to be supporting such brawn, but its spine appeared too short to allow it to stand on four legs.

With just these factors, Sam might have found the creature pitiable, perhaps even laughable…except that the overly large feet and hands ended in six inch claws. Long, sharp, gleaming teeth extended past the creature's black lips, overlapping dysfunctionally, like a crocodile in need of braces.

The creature took a single, lumbering step toward Sam. It bent awkwardly at what might have been the waist, and laid one of his heavy paws on top of Sam's broken leg. Utter agony exploded from the injured limb, and Sam bit down hard on his lower lip. The creature's lips parted, baring teeth, and it took Sam a moment to realize it must have been a cruel smile. The paw lifted, and Sam gasped in relief.

The creature awkwardly stood again, splashing through the puddle across the cave, then using its long claws to force its way up the narrow tunnel. The trapdoor slammed shut, and then Sam heard a scraping noise.

"Jordan," he said quickly. "Go see if you can figure out what he's doing."

Jordan stared up at him, eyes brimming with tears.

"Hurry, before he's gone!" Sam said harshly. He felt bad for the boy, but it was important to know what was happening.

Jordan got up quickly, sniffling a little, and moved cautiously toward the entrance.

"What's going on?" Sam demanded.

Jordan shrugged. "It kinda sounds like he's pushing something on top of the door. Maybe a big rock or something. I can't see any light through the cracks anymore."

_Must be extra security, _Sam thought.

A final scrape made Jordan jump a little and fix a frightened stare on Sam. "Can I please come back now?" he whimpered.

The look on his face had Sam softening instantly. He suddenly realized that his tone of voice had sounded exactly like his father giving an order. Wishing he hadn't made that particular connection, he nodded gently.

"Sure thing, buddy," he said softly. "Come on back."

Jordan settled down in his place at Sam's side, and Sam could feel his small body shaking, even as Sam continued shivering.

"Are we going to die?" Jordan said softly, his lip quivering.

Sam swallowed. "No, we're gonna be just fine."

Jordan held Sam's gaze for a moment, then dropped his chin to stare at his sneakers. Sam sighed and let his head rest on the cold stone behind him. Things couldn't get much worse, but at least they were both still alive.

"At least he forgot to turn off the lantern," Sam said, trying to find anything to cheer the kid up. "We've got light."

Fate didn't appear interested in cheering Jordan up, however. As soon as the words were out of Sam's mouth, the light flickered once and died, plunging the cave into damp, cold, darkness once again.

i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i

"Dean."

Dean was awake in a second, sitting up and blinking blearily.

"Come on, boy, there's someone at the door," Bobby said urgently.

"What time's it?" Dean slurred groggily. He and Bobby had been poring over Dean's notes and some of Bobby's books from the moment Bobby had arrived at just past one until almost dawn, and Dean was already feeling the fatigue. He hadn't even bothered to change his clothes the night before, and had passed out on the bed in his t-shirt and jeans.

"Doesn't matter. Listen, kid, there's a man at the door. Who have you told that you're here?"

Dean came a little more awake at that. "No one. Just you."

Bobby nodded, glancing at the door as a pair of light knocks sounded. "I was afraid of that. You go answer the door, or he's gonna wonder where you are, but I'm gonna stay back here. No point telling whoever it is that I'm here too."

Dean saw Bobby slide a handgun into the pocket of his stained jacket, and became instantly worried. "Who do you think it is?"

"Dunno, son, but I've learned that it's always better to be over-prepared. Just in case."

Dean nodded and waited until Bobby slunk into the bathroom and shut the door part way, leaving the light off. Then Dean jammed his own gun into the waistband of his jeans and stepped cautiously toward the door. He made sure the salt line was still in place before unlocking the door and opening it a few inches.

He tried to keep his surprise off his face when he saw who it was. "Mr. Snow?"

Snow nodded. "And it's…Dean, right?"

"Yeah…uh, what are you doing here?"

Snow's face reflected concern, but Dean thought it seemed a little put-upon, and he didn't wear it well. The expression seemed unnatural on his face. "My wife told me you were looking for me. Said you'd lost your brother."

Dean nodded, not trusting his voice enough to say anything.

Snow grinned widely, looking a little feral. "I think I can help you with that."

* * *

A/N: Hi everyone! Okay, first off...I have to apologize for taking sooo long to get this chapter updated. Things got a little crazy, and I had some other priorities to take care of. But I promise, coming updates will not take nearly this long. I've nearly finished writing, and we've only got a few more chapters to go. So hang in there. :) Secondly, thank you so much to all of you who are reading. I've been getting way more hits than I expected to, so thank you so much. Last but not least, thank you so much to all those of you who have reviewed so far. You guys totally make my day and encourage me to keep going. Thanks especially to Angela-Marie, jenilee, Left Hook, friendly, and meek-bookworm for your reviews of the last chapter. I really can't tell you how excited I get when I see those new reviews. Keep 'em coming. :)


	8. Chapter 7

**Open Secrets  
**

Chapter 7

"You can help me find Sam," Dean said. His voice came out monotone, making his question sound like a statement.

"I think so, yes," Snow said. "I'm not sure, of course, but I remember where I found my wife when she was taken, and that seems like a pretty good spot to start."

Dean nodded carefully and shrugged one shoulder offhandedly. "'Course, that was, what, twenty years ago? You think you can still find it?" he said, making his voice politely incredulous.

Snow's face twitched slightly, as if he were trying to hold back irritation. But then he forced his face into a reassuring smile. "I think so. But if you have another lead you'd rather follow, I would, of course, understand…"

Dean took a solid five seconds to analyze his next move. But only five seconds. Really, there was no choice, because when it came down to it, he didn't have another lead.

"Let me grab some shoes and a jacket," Dean said, once again careful to keep his face and his voice as flat as possible. "I'll be out in just a minute."

"Sure," Snow said, with that same flicker of irritation. "I'll just wait here."

Dean closed the door slowly, but as soon as he was separated from Snow, he burst into a flurry of movement. He grabbed his boots and took them to the back of the room, trying to beat crusty mud off the bottoms of them as he went.

"You're gonna go with him?" Bobby said in a near-whisper, appearing from around the door to the bathroom, his shoulders tense.

"I have to," Dean said simply.

"He could be behind all this!" Bobby hissed, still careful to keep his voice down.

Dean shrugged, pulling on his boots. "Look, Bobby…if he's innocent, then he might know where Sam is, which is better than anything I've found so far. And if he's guilty, then he _knows_ where Sam is. So I'm going with him."

"Or there's a third possibility," Bobby said.

Dean's head came up swiftly, and he paused with his foot halfway into the boot. He could tell Bobby already regretted his words. Really, neither of them had any concrete reason to believe that Sam was still alive, except for Dean's infallible optimism on the matter. And if Dean was wrong, and Sam was already beyond help, Dean would be risking his life for no reason.

Dean held Bobby's gaze until the older man looked away, rubbing the back of his neck and looking very sorry for having brought it up.

"Your dad wouldn't be too happy with this plan," Bobby finally said to fill the silence.

Dean stood. He tossed his gun on the bed and started rifling through his weapons duffel in search of a box of ammo. "Yeah, well, Dad's not here."

"Guess that means I'm gonna have to come along and look after you then."

Dean abandoned the duffel and turned slowly. "Thanks, Bobby."

Bobby just shrugged a shoulder. They each knew what the other was thinking, that it didn't really matter what the risk was, that there was no question whether to go or not. Family came first, always.

"So…what _is_ the plan?" Bobby said.

Dean took a deep breath, knowing they had only minutes before Snow started to become suspicious. "Well, we've got it narrowed down to three, right? Either Snow's controlling some kind of animal spirit, or he's a Skinwalker, or there's a Wendigo running around way outside its normal territory."

"And we have no way to know which it is," Bobby summed up.

Dean gave a shaky, humorless laugh. "This is just…great. I mean, what do we do, load up for all the options and hope we figure it out in the next few minutes?"

"You've done more research than I have around here; which do you think is the most likely?"

Dean threw his hands up. "I don't know. All those theories have issues. If it's an animal spirit, why is there such a gap between the time the people go missing and the time they're found? And if he's a Skinwalker, why did he kidnap his own wife, and why haven't there been any disappearances in twenty years? And if it's a Wendigo, why doesn't it eat its victims?"

"And you need to consider something else, here," Bobby added. "What's Snow's angle? Why did he come here?"

Dean paused. "What do you mean?"

Bobby shrugged. "Well, if he's behind all this, why is he offering to help you? Seems like a pretty stupid thing to do, you ask me."

Dean ran a hand over his face, suddenly very tired. "I don't know. But I don't have time to figure it out right now. I'm just gonna have to follow him and play it by ear." He pulled on his leather jacket, which was bulkier and would hide the weight of the assortment of weaponry he'd have to carry. He quickly loaded his favorite pistol with a round of silver bullets and tucked the gun back in the waistband of his jeans. Several shotgun shells filled with rock salt went into one of the big inside pockets of his jacket, and a small torch went into the other. He had no choice but to carry the sawed-off; it was too bulky to go into a pocket, and besides, he felt better with the weight of the shotgun in his hand.

"Ready?" he asked Bobby.

Bobby nodded. "I'll stay a couple of yards behind you."

"Don't let him see you," Dean warned. "If he's behind all this, it could really put him over the edge if he thought there was another hunter out here."

Bobby shot Dean a look. "I've been at this a lot longer than you have, boy. I know what I'm doing."

"I know," Dean said, and he meant it. He took a deep breath and flashed his best devil-may-care grin, trying to prove to himself that he wasn't nervous about this. Then he opened the door.

Snow was lounging against the side of the building, staring off into the woods. He stood when he saw Dean and glanced down at the shotgun in his hand. He nodded toward the weapon. "What's that for?"

"Protection," Dean said shortly.

Snow didn't respond. He stared uncomfortably at the shotgun for a moment, then turned slightly and set off toward the edge of the woods without another word. Dean followed, carrying the shotgun loosely at his side. They walked along in silence for nearly a quarter of an hour. Dean didn't make much of an effort to stay quiet as they hiked through the damp forest; he knew that Bobby was more than capable of moving silently through the undergrowth, but he wasn't going to allow any mishaps to screw up his plan. He was hoping that his own noise would mask any accidental twig-snapping from Bobby's direction.

He kept his eyes peeled, looking for signs of movement in the thick undergrowth, even as his mind worked frantically to figure out what he was dealing with. He sorted through clues and details, this one supporting a theory in favor of an animal spirit, that one in favor of a Skinwalker. The night before, Bobby had pushed the idea of a Wendigo, feeling that the MO matched best. He was still blatantly incredulous about Dean's "Snow-as-a-vigilante" theory, but Dean was increasingly certain that Snow was responsible. It took all of his self-control to just bide his time and wait to see where Snow was taking him, rather than demanding information at gunpoint.

He wrenched his thoughts away from that image, forcing himself to focus on the here and now. As far as he could tell, Snow didn't appear to be following any kind of discernible trail, which would make things marginally more difficult for Bobby. He hoped the older man would be able to maintain his distance and still be able to follow them.

"You're not a filmmaker, are you?"

"Huh?" Dean said sharply, startled out of his thoughts.

Snow was still blazing the trail, but he glanced over his shoulder briefly. "You and your brother. You guys aren't filmmakers, are you? You're like…what, some kind of big game hunters or something? Hoping to bag Bigfoot, right?"

"Yeah," Dean said blandly, relaxing slightly. "Something like that."

"You ever hunt…anything else?" Snow said innocuously.

Dean scrunched up his face, as if thinking carefully. "I shot a deer once," he said. He didn't mention that he'd been aiming at the werewolf behind it, and that Dad had chewed him out all the way home for letting a _deer,_ of all things, spook him. It was the only bit of honest hunting he'd ever done.

Snow stopped in the middle of the trail, turning to face Dean. Dean tightened his grip on the gun, but left it at his side. "You might as well give up the façade. I know what you are."

Dean cracked a cocky smile. "Well, that'd be charming and handsome, but somehow I don't think that's what you're talking about."

Snow continued as if he hadn't heard. "I know a demon hunter when I see one."

Dean didn't respond for a moment, trying to process the unexpected turn. He tried to shrug it off and look politely perplexed. "Demon hunter? Dude, you've been watching too much TV."

Snow laughed lightly. "I wish." He paused. "I almost became one, you know, after my wife was kidnapped. I listened to her story, too. I know there's something out here. I did my own research, found some guys who told me the truth."

"The truth?" Dean said guardedly. His voice was a little shaky. He couldn't help but notice the fact that Snow was describing exactly the way that Dean's father had gotten into the world of hunting.

"The truth, Dean. The fact that there's all kinds of crap going on. Demon, ghosts, werewolves. It's all real. You and your brother hunt them, don't you."

Dean took a deep breath, but he didn't see any point in playing dumb. "Yeah," he said. "We do."

Snow nodded. "And you're here to take care of the thing that kidnapped my wife."

"We're trying," Dean affirmed, trying to sound comforting rather than threatening. He wasn't fooled by Snow's little speech. He still believed the man to be responsible.

"Good. I don't want her to be afraid anymore."

Snow held Dean's gaze for a few seconds. Then he turned back around and started picking his way through the thick undergrowth.

"So does this mean you know how to kill it?" Snow said without pausing or turning around.

"Yeah," Dean said authoritatively. Which was more or less true. Sure, he still didn't know what exactly they were dealing with, but he did know how to kill the things he thought it might be. "If we can find it, I can kill it." Over the crunch of the undergrowth under their feet, he heard Snow exhale. Dean wondered if it was a sigh of relief or of fear.

"So what is it exactly?"

"It's a creature," Dean said vaguely. No way was he going to give Snow more information than he already had. "Are we getting close?"

"Yes."

"Super," Dean muttered.

!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!

"Hey, Sam, look!"

Sam sighed deeply, then forcibly cracked an eye open. "What, Jordan?" he said. He tried not to sound too annoyed.

"I found a little flashlight in the pocket of this jacket," Jordan said excitedly. There was a soft click, and the penlight blazed to life. The cave was so dark that the small flashlight's narrow beam lit up the entire room. Sam squinted; the light was painful contrasted against the darkness of a moment before.

"This will help when your brother comes to save us, won't it!" Jordan said, flicking the light's beam enthusiastically around the cave walls. "Do you think he'll come soon?"

Sam shifted his weight carefully, so as not to disturb his leg. "Yeah, Jordan, I'm sure he'll be here soon."

Jordan beamed, and Sam reflected that kids must not be very good at catching liars.

He relaxed as best he could, though the constant shivering made that difficult, and allowed his eyes to slip shut. Maybe he'd finally be able to sleep. Sleeping would be nice. It would be a break from the constant painful realization that, for whatever reason, Dean was not here. Dean hadn't found him. Dean might never find him.

!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!

"Why didn't you become a hunter?" Dean asked after a few moments, hoping to get any little bit of information out of Snow.

Snow shrugged. "Thought about it. But you hunters, you're a little blind."

Dean raised an eyebrow, stepping carefully over a fallen log. "Blind? How do you figure?"

"Well," Snow said, "what do you and your brother hunt?"

That was easy, at least. "If it's supernatural, we kill it."

"You'll kill anything?"

Dean paused, feeling baited. "What, were you expecting a specialty or something?"

Snow seemed unimpressed with his flippancy. "No. I'm wondering if you've ever thought that the maybe the things you hunt could be doing some good?"

Dean allowed himself a short chuckle. "No. They're never doing good. They're always doing evil."

"_Always_?" Snow pressed. He stopped to watch Dean's reaction.

"Yes," Dean said acerbically. "Always. That's kind of the point of evil. See? Easy."

"Blind," Snow countered.

He pushed his way past a thorny bush and into a small clearing. Dean followed, his gun slightly raised. He wasn't exactly sure what the point of Snow's little speech was, but if it had accomplished anything, it was that Dean was now approximately 99.9 percent sure that Snow was not only the bad guy in this little disaster, but also extraordinarily morally confused, and possibly insane.

Dean glanced around the clearing. There wasn't much to see. Dead leaves lay like a thick carpet over mud and puddles from all the recent rain. A crooked tree root stuck up through the ground like clawing fingers. Near the center of the clearing lay a large, flat boulder. Dean's mind worked quickly, trying to figure out why they had stopped here. Was it some kind of a trick or trap? Might Snow have a hidden weapon here? It seemed unlikely that Sam was nearby. Mrs. Snow had described being held captive in a cave, and Dean wasn't seeing any caves, unless it was hidden under the boulder.

While Dean tried to think, Snow moved purposefully toward the boulder, knelt next to it, and started pushing it. It made a scraping noise that made Dean think it sat over concrete or perhaps wood, but certainly not dirt and mud. Dean was momentarily surprised that Snow could move it all; while it was long and flat, it looked heavy, and seemed to sit in a depression in the ground, meaning he had to work against the slope of the dirt.

But Dean didn't let it distract him for long. Snow couldn't have moved it more than an inch before Dean brought the shotgun up, pointing it at Snow. He didn't know what was under that boulder, but he wasn't about to let Snow have the upper hand.

"Stop," Dean said. He tried to keep his voice low, pricking his ears in the hopes of hearing a tell-tale rustle of leaves or crack of a twig which would tell him where Bobby might be.

Snow glanced up at him. Dean cocked his head to the left. "How about you just move away from there."

!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!

The grinding noise rang loud in the silence, compounded by the acoustics of the cave.

"Sam? What is that? Is that him?" asked the little boy.

Sam coughed to clear his throat. He didn't bother to open his eyes. "It's the stone…over the entrance." His voice shook; he was still shivering.

"Should we try to escape?"

Sam cracked his good eye open a sliver and looked at Jordan, whose face reflected trust and optimism: he still believed Sam could get him out of here. Sam closed his eyes slowly and let his head rest against the cave wall behind him.

"Sam?"

He tried to force his eyes all the way open this time, but only one made it; the other was swollen almost completely shut thanks to their recent visitor. Jordan moved closer and peered at him closely.

"Should we try to escape?"

Sam swallowed thickly. "No. We should just stay here."

"For your brother to come?"

Sam nodded, allowing his eyes to slide closed again. "For my brother to come."

Jordan slid down the wall and sat next to Sam. "You're still sure he's gonna come?"

"I'm sure," Sam said, but it was a lie. He wasn't sure. He was tired and cold and sick, and starting to lose hope.

Soon all he'd be left with was his fear.

!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!

Bobby stood with his back against the rough bark of huge old oak. He had stayed close enough to be able to hear, but only just. He was sure it was just his imagination, but he could have sworn that he had seen Snow cock his head in Bobby's direction once or twice as Bobby had carefully wended his way through the thick vegetation. But Bobby knew that couldn't be right. The man would have to have super-sensitive hearing to pick up the minute noises.

Bobby had spent the majority of the hike trying to figure out what exactly Snow was trying to accomplish. His early admission that he knew Dean was a hunter had blown Bobby's suspicions through the roof. He could see only one good reason Snow might bring up this particular topic of conversation: he was trying to get Dean to lower his guard. Bobby had mentally chuckled as he watched Dean and listened to the kid's lame wisecracks. Snow obviously hadn't done his homework if he thought Dean was going to be distracted by _anything_ when his brother's life was on the line. Bobby could tell even from a distance of several yards that Dean was more impatient than anything else.

Perhaps beginning to realize that his plan to throw Dean off his guard was failing, Bobby listened carefully as Snow shifted the discussion to the peculiar philosophy and morality that came with hunting supernatural critters. Bobby could have predicted Dean's reaction without having to listen to it: Dean didn't share the moral qualms that Sam had always had. It wasn't that Dean wasn't a good person, or that he didn't care about doing the right thing; rather, he just didn't allow those concerns to weigh him down when lives were on the line.

But while Dean might not entertain moral quandaries, Sam was exactly the sort to do just that. Bobby hoped he wasn't just being overly optimistic, but to him, it sure seemed like Snow had successfully used this same tactic on one of the Winchester brothers, and was now trying it out on the second.

Which meant Sam was alive, or had been, a short time ago.

Which meant one of two things: Snow was either intentionally misdirecting Dean in an effort to throw off his efforts to find Sam, or Dean's insane vigilante theory was correct, and Dean was merely the next in the increasing list of victims Snow had "punished."

Bobby watched Snow step into the clearing. Dean followed him, but Bobby could tell that Snow's efforts at manipulation had put the boy on edge. Bobby wasn't sure if Dean had drawn the same conclusions as he had; he doubted it, guessing that Dean's mind was, as usual, working on figuring out how to save Sam, with no thought left over for his own well-being. Either way, Dean's shoulders were rigid as he followed Snow. Bobby watched as the kid swept the clearing with a professional eye, quickly taking everything in.

Bobby got as close as he dared, close enough that he could still hear everything that was being said, but hopefully far enough away that he wouldn't be seen, wreathed as he was in shadow.

He watched as Snow bent and worked to remove the stone. Bobby knitted his eyebrows in confusion. What could Snow be hiding?

"Stop."

Bobby's eyes flicked back toward Dean, who now held the shotgun up and aimed at Snow. Bobby nodded in approval. Smart move. Since it was already clear that Snow knew what Dean was, Dean had nothing to lose by holding a gun on him, and this way, there was no way Snow could surprise Dean with whatever was under that stone.

"How about you just move away from there," Dean said. Bobby felt a slight chill run down his spine. Dean only pulled out that deadly serious tone when he was, literally, _deadly_ serious. And while Bobby very much enjoyed the company of the elder Winchester brother, it was times like this that he was forcibly reminded that Dean was a very dangerous, very intelligent weapon.

Which was why Bobby was very surprised when Snow's face split into a wide, sincere grin.

"Ah, Dean," Snow said cheerfully. "It's come to guns already?"

Dean responded by shifting his weight slightly, settling the weight of the gun in his hand.

"I must say, I am a little disappointed," Snow groused. "By both of you. I mean, I didn't expect this to be…_fun_, exactly, when I realized I could take my revenge out on you, but I did allow myself to hope for satisfaction at least."

Bobby forced himself not to charge into the clearing, spewing bullets. He was Dean's insurance policy, after all. He had to wait and see what Dean was going to do.

Impressively, Dean didn't say anything at all. He motioned with his gun again, and Snow took a slow step sideways.

"We may as well just drop the ruse, Dean," Snow said impatiently. "I know what you are, and I'm guessing that by now you've figured out what I am."

Dean's stoicism wavered slightly, eyebrows knitted. Bobby rubbed a hand across his face. It couldn't be much more obvious that Dean did not, in fact, know what Snow was. But something in the way Snow had phrased that sentence seemed a little strange...and then understanding dawned for Bobby at the same moment it did for Dean. Their eyes widened simultaneously.

"You're a Skinwalker," Dean breathed. "Aren't you."

Snow breathed an exaggerated sigh of relief. "Very good. I was afraid you weren't going to figure it out. I had to spoil the punch line for Sam by actually _transforming_ in front of him. Which was very annoying," he added, almost as an afterthought, "because ever since your daddy shot me back when you were just a kid, it's been very painful for me to transform. In fact, it took me this whole time just to figure out how to do it again without passing out entirely."

Dean was practically trembling with what Bobby guessed was barely repressed rage at the mention of his brother's name. Actually, Bobby was rather impressed with the level of self-control Dean appeared to be exhibiting. After all, self-control had never been one of Dean's stronger traits.

!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!

Sam sat up slightly, prying his eye open. At first he had thought it was just his imagination. He'd shaken it off, though it scared him a little that he was hallucinating. But now he wondered if what he was hearing might be more than wishful thinking.

"Jordan," he said softly. "Listen. Do you hear anything?"

Jordan cocked his head. "Like what?"

"Like...a voice? Someone talking? But sort of muffled?"

Jordan looked around the cave as he listened hopefully. But then his face fell slightly. "I don't hear anything. Do you think it might be your brother? Do you think he might be up there?"

Sam bit his lip. But he couldn't hear anything now, either. He sighed again. "I must have imagined it."

The little boy nodded, looking troubled. Sam tried to force his face into a comforting smile, but he was pretty sure it came out looking like a grimace. "You better save that light, kid. I don't know how good the batteries are. I haven't used it in a while."

Now seeming thoroughly disheartened, Jordan clicked the light off.

Sam leaned back again, and though he tried to tell himself that there was nothing to hear, he listened hard into the darkness for the muffled sound of Dean's voice.

!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!

"Where is Sam?" Dean snapped.

"He's nearby, Dean, and he's still alive," Snow said nonchalantly. Then he paused and thought it over. "Or, at least, he was last I saw him. He seemed like he'd still be alive by now. But who can tell. Sometimes they just…give up. Plus, head injuries are so tricky…." He shook himself out of his rambling. "But here's the problem. If I tell you where he is, where's the proof that you're not just going to shoot me?"

Dean appeared to consider that for a moment, and then he did something Bobby had never seen him do except on his father's orders: he dropped his gun. He raised his hands in the air, slowly, so that Snow could see what he was doing.

Again, Bobby nodded in approval. It was a wise move, reducing tension and allowing Snow to feel he had the upper hand. And since the rock salt rounds in the shotgun wouldn't have actually hurt Snow anyway, Dean hadn't really lost a weapon.

Bobby pulled his pistol out, a Beretta loaded with silver bullets, and trained it on Snow's heart, just in case something went spectacularly wrong, and listened to Dean.

"I'm unarmed, and you can hulk out anytime you want. You've got the upper hand, buddy. Now tell me where my brother is."

Snow casually kicked the shotgun out of the clearing, toward Bobby's direction. Bobby quickly did his best to hide himself completely behind the tree trunk, hoping that the direction of the kick was purely coincidental.

"Okay, Dean, but there are three things that you should know first."

Bobby risked a glance back toward the clearing. Whatever mastery Dean may have had over his emotions was rapidly dissipating. His fury was making him twitch: he couldn't seem to keep his hands still.

"One: Sammy's had a hard few days. He's in a cave, underground, underneath that stone, as a matter of fact. And I'm the only one strong enough to move that stone, so it would be very unwise for you to do anything that might cause me debilitating harm."

Dean's eyes flitted to the rock and back to Snow. Bobby's stomach sank, and he was pretty sure that Dean was enduring the same feeling. The man had them pretty well cornered. Bobby was still sure that his presence there was unknown to Snow, but despite that fact, there was no way either Bobby or Dean could open fire on the Skinwalker without condemning Sam to a long, cruel death.

Snow smiled, and continued. "Two: I brought you here for a reason. You, like your brother, have done some very illegal things, Dean. And since the courts haven't caught you at it, I'm going to take care of punishing you for them."

"Yeah, you're a real hero," Dean spat.

"Three: your brother is a very stubborn young man. Normal tactics don't appear to work on him. So I had to get even more creative than usual, which actually kind of works out perfectly for me, because frankly? It's more fun."

Snow grinned wickedly, and Dean took a step back. Since he was at a greater distance than Dean, it took Bobby a second longer to figure out why, but then he saw it too. Snow's hands were widening. His fingers seemed, at first, to be lengthening, but then Bobby realized that long, curved claws were growing where his fingers had been.

"Oh, crap," Bobby muttered under his breath. He lifted the pistol and aimed it carefully at Snow's heart, but he didn't pull the trigger. He was waiting for some kind of signal from Dean, anything that might tell him what to do.

"Whoa, buddy," Dean said cautiously, taking another step back. "How about you just put those claws away. I mean, that can_not_ be comfortable."

"It's…not," Snow said through gritted teeth. "But it's worth it."

"Maybe I'll just take you down right now," Dean said loudly, and Bobby was sure the line was meant for him. Did Dean really want him to shoot Snow when he could be their only hope for getting Sam out? "I mean," Dean continued, "now I know where Sam is, I'm sure I could figure out a way to get him out."

"You could try," Snow said. He seemed to have halted the transformation, making it look like he was wearing a pair of especially dangerous furry, elbow length gloves. "But would you make it in time?"

Dean didn't respond, and Bobby lowered the gun slightly.

"Not worth the risk, is it?" Snow grinned. "Don't worry, I won't kill you. I'll give you the same deal I gave your brother and everyone else I've captured."

"Which is?"

Snow shrugged unconcernedly. "I'm sure your brother will explain all the details. All you have to do is deliver a message for me."

"Sounds awesome," Dean said, and he finally had that note of bravado back in his voice.

Bobby sighed softly and put the safety back on the Beretta. If he were given the choice, there was no question about it: he'd have taken Snow out with one well-placed bullet, and waited until after to come up with a good way to get Sam out. But decisions regarding Sam's well-being were Dean's territory, and if Dean wanted to turn himself over to this madman in an attempt to find his brother, Bobby had no choice but to go along with that.

Feeling like a traitor, he put the gun back in his pocket and moved a few paces away. All he could think was that he hoped John Winchester never found out that Bobby had sat by and allowed Dean to turn himself over to a psychotic Skinwalker.

!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!

"So what's this message you want delivered?" Dean asked, trying to inject a level of machismo into his voice.

Snow grinned. "Why don't you just tell Sammy that he was right about the boy—but I have no such concerns about you."

His hand—or paw, or whatever it was—flashed out. The four sharp, black claws which minutes ago had been a human hand caught Dean along the collarbone. Dean did his best to turn away, but the claws still managed to put four straight, shallow cuts across his chest. The weight of the heavy paw sent Dean stumbling. He tried to catch his balance, but overcorrected and landed flat on his back in the sticky mud. Despite the soft landing, the fall still managed to knock the wind out of him. He sucked in a deep breath, raising his hands over his head to fend off additional attacks, but none came.

Coughing, he looked up and saw that Snow was pushing the stone out of the way even as he finished the transformation. Dean pushed himself to his feet warily, rolling his shoulder to make sure everything was in working order. The scratches were annoying, but weren't slowing him down. He breathed deeply, trying to catch his wind again.

The stone had been completely removed now, and Dean could see that the Skinwalker was prying up a wooden trap door. Dean's heart rose in his throat, seeing an opportunity. He no longer needed Snow, now that the stone was gone and the trapdoor was up. He grabbed for the gun loaded with the silver bullets, but it was missing. Realizing he must have lost it in the fall, he frantically glanced around, trying to see it. Now would be a really great time for Bobby to take Snow down, Dean thought, as he slipped in the mud in search of the gun.

But he had barely a second to look before a set of heavy paws was physically lifting him from the ground. Next moment, he was being tossed down a somewhat narrow tunnel. Momentarily weightless, he landed hard with a grunt in about three inches of water before he was completely sure he knew what had even happened. He stood quickly, staring up the tunnel. He caught a glimpse of the trapdoor falling shut, though the stone was not replaced, leaving him in shadow lighted only by the watery sunlight streaming through cracks in the trapdoor.

"Son of a…" he started, infuriated with himself. He'd turned his back on the Skinwalker, had allowed him to get the upper hand. _Idiot! _he thought. He glanced down at his jacket and pants, which were both dripping wet, and became even more angry. "Freakin' mud is gonna ruin…why can't we ever have a hunt where the _sun_ shines?"

"Dean?"

Dean flipped around, sending a spray of water flying. The cave was completely dark past the little circle of light he was standing under, but he would have recognized that voice anywhere. He quickly snatched up the penlight he always kept in his jacket pocket and flicked it on. The thin blade wavered wildly around the cave until it came to rest on the huddled figure.

He didn't look particularly good, Dean thought. One eye was considerably swollen, and he was shivering hard enough that Dean could see it from here. One leg was stretched out in front of him, looking uncomfortably straight and still, which led Dean to believe it was injured, perhaps broken.

But he was alive, and sheltering what looked like a mound of khaki jacket, which on a second glance, Dean realized must be a little boy.

Relief flooded through him, so poignant that he felt a little lightheaded. He had spent the last several days telling himself that Sam was okay, that he hadn't dragged his little brother on this ridiculous hunt only to get him killed. He had spent the last several hours trying to convince both Dad and Bobby that Sam was alive and just waiting for them to mount a rescue.

But now that he knew Sam was safe, he could admit to himself that he hadn't believed his own lies. He had been sure that if they ever found Sam, he would be in the same shape as the other victims had been, mauled and mangled. And it would have been his, Dean's, fault. He would never have the opportunity to apologize, to set things straight, and that would be the end of the Winchester family for good.

So seeing Sam here, alive if not healthy, seemed different than the many other times Dean had come to his little brother's rescue. This was an opportunity not only to save Sam, but to salvage things, maybe even…did he dare he think it? maybe even put things back the way they were, before Sam had left for college, when they had been a family.

Dean couldn't help himself. Though he knew he should be worried about Sam, worried about how they were gonna get out of here, worried about whether Snow would find Bobby out in the woods, he couldn't stop a huge grin from spreading across his face.

"Hey Sammy," he said cheerfully. He looked around with the same critical eye he had used to examine Sam's apartment mere days before. "Nice place you got here."

* * *

A/N: Hey everyone! I hope you guys are all still enjoying the ride. :) Thanks to Left Hook, friendly, jenilee, rozzy07, sUnKiSsT, and Von for your amazing reviews. I appreciate you taking the time to let me know what you think, because it really helps me tighten things up. And special thanks to jenilee, for an extra dose of much needed encouragement. I owe you. ;)


	9. Chapter 8

**Open Secrets**

Chapter 8

At first, Sam thought he was imagining things. After all, it couldn't have been much more than ten or fifteen minutes from the last time he had heard the scrape of the rock over the little tunnel. He didn't even bother to try to force his eye open again. His wishful thinking was starting to get to him, that was all.

But he wasn't so far out of it that he didn't hear the creak of the trapdoor and the splash of something landing heavily in the small puddle still trapped in the cave. Jordan automatically curled up against Sam's side, gripping his arm tightly. Sam took a deep, ragged breath. He wasn't sure he could endure another visit from Snow so soon. He hadn't had any time to recover yet.

But then his breath caught in his throat at what he heard next.

"Son of a…," Dean started in a mutter, trailing off. "Freakin' mud is gonna ruin…why can't we ever have a hunt where the _sun_ shines?"

Sam forced his eyes open, disbelief slowing his reaction. Because how was it possible that Dean had found him?

"Dean?"

The trap door slammed down, and Sam only managed to catch a brief glimpse of his brother standing slowly, flicking water off his jacket, before darkness had once again fallen.

But it only lasted a moment before the bright beam from Dean's penlight was flickering around the walls of the cave.

"Hey, Sammy. Nice place you got here."

Sam couldn't help it. He let out a short bark of relieved laughter. He didn't know how Dean had done it, and really, didn't particularly care. He should have known all along that Dean would find him.

And then his brain kicked back in, and a few things dawned on him, the most important of which was the fact that the trapdoor had slammed closed behind him.

"Dean," Sam said, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "Did you _get yourself captured?_"

"I did it on purpose," Dean said defensively. "It was the only way I could think of to find you. Don't worry, I had Bobby watching my back."

"Bobby's here?" Sam asked quickly.

"Yeah. I'm not an idiot."

"Coulda fooled me," Sam muttered.

Dean made an attempt to look wounded, but he seemed to be having a hard time keeping the smile off his face. "Good to see you too, Sammy." And Sam was surprised to realize that there was absolutely no sarcasm behind his words.

Dean slogged through the little puddle until he was standing directly in front of Sam. "And who's this?" he asked, glancing to Sam's left.

"Jordan Burke," Sam said quickly. "Remember, the kid that went missing?"

"Oh, yeah," Dean said softly. "How ya doin', buddy?" His voice was surprisingly gentle, his concern genuine. Sam could see Jordan's chin trembling.

"Are you here to rescue us?" he said, barely containing a sob.

"Yeah," Dean said, ruffling the boy's hair affectionately. "Yeah, I'm here to rescue you. You all right? Sammy been taking care of you?"

Jordan glanced at Sam and nodded gamely, though Sam really couldn't think of anything he'd done to take care of the kid.

"Good," Dean said, and the penlight's beam shifted rapidly over to Sam's face, so that Sam turned his head and squinted. "Huh. I see your friend spent some time improving your face."

"Nice," Sam said sarcastically.

Dean shrugged. "It's not all bad." He gripped Sam's chin and turned his brother's head slightly so as to get a better look. "Nice shiner. Ooh, but bad luck. Looks like he busted your nose. It's looking crooked. And huge."

Momentarily alarmed, Sam reached up to touch his face. "What!? I don't even remember getting hit in the…" but everything felt fine; his nose didn't seem swollen or painful…. And that was when he caught a glimpse of Dean's grin. "Really, Dean? Is right now the time to be making fun of me?"

Dean shrugged. "Oh, it's always the time. It's a big brother thing. You hurt anywhere else?"

"Besides the busted leg, no I'm just great," Sam said sardonically.

Dean's penlight immediately traveled down to Sam's leg, where Dean carefully poked and prodded critically at the makeshift splint Sam had created for himself. Finally, he sat back. "You did a decent job with the splint. Did you help him with that, Jordan?"

"Yeah," Jordan said softly. Then, a little louder, "I got him the wood."

Dean grinned. "Thanks, buddy. It's a good thing you were here. Sammy needs a lot of looking after."

Jordan grinned back.

Dean's attention switched back to Sam. "Well, you definitely need to get to a hospital soon. But I think you'll live."

"Thanks. That's very comforting."

"You cold?"

Sam guessed it was too much to try to lie or tough his way through this one; the shivers were not nearly as violent as they had been the night before, but he still couldn't quite get his body to warm up.

But Dean didn't wait for a response. He shucked off his jacket and tossed it at Sam. "It's wet where I fell into that little puddle, but it's better than nothing, I guess."

Sam didn't even bother trying to argue. He slipped the heavy leather jacket on and tried to force himself to stop shivering. Dean watched him until he was satisfied that the shivering had slowed, then wandered over to the edge of the puddle, training his flashlight on the tunnel entrance.

Sam sighed, surprised at how quickly he warmed up. He felt the tension in his muscles gradually relax, and he shrugged deeper into the jacket. He was startled when he felt something slightly tacky on his fingers. It took him less than five seconds to realize that there was a small amount of drying blood in the lining of the jacket.

"Dean--are you hurt?

Dean glanced over at him, and for the first time there was genuine distress on his face. "Aw, man! Did I get blood on that jacket? It's gonna take me forever to get it out!"

"Dean! Are you hurt?"

Dean shrugged away his concern. "Don't worry about it, Sammy. Coupla stitches, I'll be good as new."

Sam relaxed a little. Dean was definitely the type to downplay injury, but they had hunted together long enough to know how important it was to be honest with each other about how severely injured they were. If Dean said he would be okay, then Sam knew he would be okay, though he didn't doubt that a cut like that must be painful.

"So what's the plan for getting out of here?" Sam asked. The adrenaline shock of seeing Dean suddenly appear in his little cave had worn off, and he was starting to feel sluggish and drowsy again. The added warmth of the jacket did nothing to help keep him alert.

"I'm, uh…working on that," Dean said casually.

Sam realized he'd allowed his eyes to slide closed. It took him a moment for Dean's words to process, but when they did, his eyes snapped open. He shook his head, fighting cobwebs. What had Dean just said? Oh yeah. "You don't have a plan to get us out of here?" Sam asked in disbelief.

"Well," Dean said, obviously more concerned with his examination of the cave entrance than the conversation, "my original plan was to build a bomb out of gum and some duct tape and we'd just blast our way out." He grinned widely. "But then I realized, I'm fresh out of duct tape."

"What a shame," Sam monotoned, unimpressed.

Dean stuck his penlight in his mouth and did his best to claw his way up the entrance. Sam could hear him jiggling the trapdoor, testing its strength. Dean would find a way out. He was smart like that. Dean was taking care of things, Sam knew. He relaxed a little, let his eyes slide shut.

A tug on his sleeve brought him back to the moment, and he looked down at Jordan, who was staring at Dean with something akin to hero worship. "Can he really build us a bomb?"

Sam grimaced. "No. He's just channeling his inner MacGyver."

"Who's MacGyver?"

Sam thought about explaining, but was distracted by Dean jumping back down into the puddle. "So?" he asked hopefully.

"He's got it locked somehow, from the outside. Which makes things slightly more difficult for us. Unless you've got either a skeleton key or some kind of hidden psychic power."

Sam didn't bother giving a response. It would have taken far too much energy.

"No bright ideas?" Dean asked. "Higher education didn't give you any hints on how to bust out of a cave?"

Sam bristled. _That_ was worth giving a response to. "_You're_ supposed to be the mastermind here. _You_ came to rescue _me_, remember?"

"I masterminded the part of the plan where I found you in the first place," Dean pointed out unconcernedly. He sat down in the dry part of the cave, stretching his legs out in front of him and propping his hands behind his head, looking perfectly relaxed and even a little bored. "Your turn to contribute."

"How _did_ you find me?"

Dean gave him an uneasy look. "You don't remember…just now? When I said…?"

Sam knitted his eyebrows. "What?"

Dean shook his head. "Never mind."

Not sure what to make of Dean's change in tone, Sam chose to ignore it. "So…seriously, how'd you find me?"

Dean quirked an eyebrow again, as if he were trying to figure out if Sam was making a joke or not. Finally he shrugged and grinned. "Easy. Just follow the smell." He lazily scratched the back of his head before replacing his hands behind his head. "Seriously, dude. Two days in a cave has not been kind to you."

Sam heard Jordan giggle, and thought about snapping back at Dean. It didn't help that Dean was probably right. He decided not to respond. He was so tired. In fact, now Dean was here, taking care of things, it would be okay if he allowed himself to sleep. Dean would wake him up when he came up with an escape plan. Except that Dean was just sitting there doing nothing…

Sam forced himself to keep his eyes open. "So, what, we're just gonna do nothing?"

"Dude, chill," Dean said unconcernedly. "I'm guessing Bobby'll be here any minute now, and between us, I'm sure we can figure something out."

That brought Sam up short. "Bobby's here?"

Dean didn't respond for a moment, looking distinctly uneasy now. "Sammy, how many hits to the head did you take?"

Sam shrugged. "Um…I don't really…a couple, I guess. Why?"

Dean stood stiffly. "Hey, Jordan, why don't you take a seat over here?"

"Why?"

Dean's face twitched. Sam knew from experience how little Dean appreciated people questioning orders. But instead of snapping at the kid, as he might have snapped at Sam, he smiled tightly. "It's a better spot. More comfortable. Trust me."

Dean waited until Jordan shrugged and made his way over. Then he drew the penlight out and shined it in Sam's face. Sam shied away. The light was blinding. Dean used his thumb and forefinger to gently pry open the eye that was nearly swollen shut, still shining the light in Sam's eyes.

"Ow, Dean…that hurts," Sam said, knocking the hand away.

Dean sat back on his heels. He didn't look happy anymore. "Hmm."

"What?"

"Nothing."

Sam frowned. Dean was starting to sound a little surly. "So…Bobby's here?"

Dean frowned. He flicked his light off. "Yeah, he's here. Came up from Phoenix."

"Is…Dad? Here?" Sam said it softly, trying to make his voice seem indifferent.

There was a short pause. Dean cleared his throat. "Naw, man. He doesn't even know you're here. Remember how you didn't want him to know you were here?"

Sam swallowed. Oh yeah. He had said that. It still felt a bit like a let down. He had to remind himself that he didn't want to see his dad. Didn't want to even speak to him. His father had driven him out of the family, told him not to come back.

It was probably just because he was stuck in this ridiculous situation that he wished Dad were here, he reasoned. The stress of the last few days. That was all.

"I would have called him anyway," Dean murmured. "But his leg's all busted up, so he couldn't have helped anyway."

Sam nodded, though he knew Dean couldn't see him in the dark.

"But if he could have been here, I'm sure he would have, Sammy."

Sam made a noncommittal grunt.

"He would, Sam. He—" Dean paused. "You know, when we get out of this," he paused again, sounding nervous, a quality his voice rarely held, "maybe we could just, you know, meet up with him and grab a burger or something—"

"'If you go, you stay gone,'" Sam quoted. He remembered to reinforce the words with the right amount of bitterness. "His words, not mine. He doesn't _want_ to see me, Dean."

An unpleasant silence filled the cave.

"Get some rest, Sammy. I'll tell you when Bobby shows."

Sam opened his mouth to respond, preferably with something witty and a little insulting, but nothing came to mind, and he was tired. He sighed softly, folded his arms to his chest to help keep himself warm, and finally allowed himself to doze.

!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!

"So he wanted Sam to admit he was wrong?" Dean whispered.

Jordan shrugged. "I guess so. He kept saying that Sam was bad."

"Bad how?"

"He said he broke laws."

Dean chewed on that. "So he wanted Sam to admit he was _guilty_."

"I guess."

Dean shook his head. "It's a lost cause. Sammy _hates_ admitting he's wrong."

There was a soft groan in the darkness, and Dean and Jordan immediately quieted. Dean wanted Sam to be able to rest as long as possible. It wasn't going to be easy getting him out of here.

"Is he? Wrong?" Jordan finally asked, his voice barely a whisper. "Is he a bad person?"

"No," Dean said immediately. "Sam's about as far from being a bad person as you can get."

"So he didn't do all those things that bad guy said he did?"

Dean scratched the back of his head. Geez, how could he explain to a kid that Sam was both a good person and, technically, a criminal?

"Dean? You down there?"

Dean stood quickly, glad he was spared the necessity of an answer."Yeah." he called softly. "That you, Bobby?"

"Yeah," came the answer. He sounded tense and distracted. There was the faint sound of metal clicking together. Dean decided Bobby must be picking the lock on the trapdoor. He carefully climbed up the tunnel, then gripped the planks of the trapdoor to stabilize himself.

"Nice to see you back here so soon," Dean said irritably.

The clicking stopped. "You got something to say to me, boy?

"Yeah, I do, actually. Where exactly were you?" he hissed.

Bobby paused. "When? When you decided it'd be a good idea to let the psycho Skinwalker capture you? When you weren't sure that he had Sam, or that Sam was still alive, or that he was here and not somewhere else?"

Dean frowned. When he put it that way, it made it sound like an idiotic idea. "Yeah. That's what I mean."

The clicking resumed. "Well, if you had used your brain for about ten seconds, you would have remembered that Skinwalkers can move fast when they want to, and they have an incredibly good sense of smell. I had to get out of there if I wanted to live long enough to come back for you."

Dean winced. That _was_ a pretty good point. Not that he'd ever admit to it.

"Any chance you can get this door open?" he asked gruffly.

"Working on it," Bobby answered tersely. "Please tell me Sam actually _is _down there."

"Yeah, he's here," Dean answered, once again feeling the relief of having found Sam. "I was pretty sure he _was_," Dean added, slightly accusatorily.

Bobby must have sensed what Dean was alluding to. "Even if I had risked my life to stick around, and I could have gotten off a clear shot, I wouldn't have," Bobby said. "What if you _had_ been wrong? What if Sam hadn't been down there, Dean? Then what would you have done? You'd have never found him if Snow was dead. But you didn't think of that, either, did you?"

"But I _wasn't_ wrong," Dean pointed out. He ignored the wave of cold fear that hit him at the thought of what might have happened had he been wrong.

Bobby grunted, but didn't say anything. Finally, Dean heard a faint click, then the clanking of metal as Bobby removed the lock. Dean gripped a root tightly so that Bobby could swing the trapdoor open, then allowed Bobby to help him climb up and on to the ground.

"We gotta get Sam out of here. Now. Before Snow comes back."

Bobby stowed his lockpick in a jacket pocket. "You got reason to believe he'll be coming back here soon?"

"Yeah," Dean said. "We were right, he's doing this whacked out vigilante thing. He's been trying to get Sam to admit he's a criminal. I'm guessing that half the reason he brought me out here was because beating up on Sam wasn't quite doing the trick. He's figured out that Sam's weak spot is me. So yeah, I think he's gonna come back."

"Sam tell you all that?" Bobby asked, examining the tunnel.

"Uh…no," Dean answered. "There's a little boy down there too, Bobby. He saw everything. He told me. Sam's not…doing well. He busted his leg, and he's got a concussion."

Bobby nodded. Dean could tell that he instantly understood the difficulty they would have getting Sam back to civilization with that kind of an injury, but he didn't say anything about it. He merely nodded again. "Okay. We get Sam out, and then I'll come back and put a bullet in that whacko before he can hurt anyone else."

Dean took a deep breath. "All right. Let's get the kid out first, then Sam. You got some silver bullets handy, just in case?"

Bobby held up his gun in response. Then, he pulled a second from an inside pocket. "I'm guessing you want this back?" he said.

Dean took the gun sheepishly, securing it in the waistband of his jeans. "Yeah. Uh. Thanks."

"Don't lose it again, Dean," Bobby said, sounding very much like Dean's father.

"I won't." Dean took another breath, steadying himself for what was coming. Then, without another word, he carefully lowered himself into the darkness of the cave.

!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!

Bobby rechecked his gun, making sure it was fully loaded. He kept one ear and both eyes trained on the trees around him, watching carefully for any signs of movement in the underbrush.

"You ready to get out of here, Jordan?" Dean's voice emanated faintly from underground. Bobby couldn't make out the answer, but he heard Dean chuckle faintly and say, "Yeah, I bet."

Bobby took one more careful look around. Satisfied that there was no one and nothing lurking, he dropped to one knee and looked down the tunnel. It was hard to see, with only the overcast sunlight for illumination, but he could just make out Dean's light-colored button-up shirt in the darkness.

"Alright, I'm gonna boost you up, and then Bobby up there is gonna pull you up, okay?"

Bobby caught a glimpse of a pale face in the gloom.

"Is he a good guy?" the boy asked in a trembling voice.

Dean chuckled. "Yeah, he's a good guy. You ready?"

The boy looked up at Bobby again, then nodded. Dean glanced up at Bobby, who also nodded. Dean interlaced his fingers, and the boy stepped carefully onto Dean's hands.

"Alright, kiddo, stick your foot right there," Dean instructed gently, "yeah, good, now grab that…yeah, that's it, you're almost there."

Bobby reached a hand down and gripped the boy's wrist, then his arm, and finally was able to pull him out all together. He set the boy down on the ground, momentarily surprised at how little he weighed. It had been a very long time since Bobby had spent time around kids this young. Since…well, since Sam had been that age.

"You okay, kid?" Bobby asked. He tried not to sound too gruff, but he was out of practice. The kid merely nodded, looking a little pathetic, standing there shivering in just a t-shirt and jeans, thoroughly filthy. Bobby winced internally. He remembered the first time John Winchester had shown up at his doorstep, Sammy in one arm and Dean always hovering within a few feet. It had taken him a good year to figure out how to talk to those boys. How had he done it?

"Bobby."

He glanced down the tunnel just in time to see Dean toss Sam's khaki jacket up at him. He caught it in one hand and sent a questioning look. "Give it to Jordan," Dean explained, then disappeared into the gloom.

Bobby shrugged and handed it to the boy. "Think you can take care of this for me for a few minutes?" he asked, as kindly and patiently as he could. Jordan nodded and took the jacket carefully.

"You wanna have a seat?" Bobby asked when the boy just kept watching him with wide blue eyes. "You can just sit right there. Don't go anywhere. We're just gonna get Sam out."

Jordan draped the jacket over his shoulders and sat down cross-legged just out of the way of the trapdoor. Bobby glanced down the tunnel again. He could barely hear Dean patiently talking to his brother, clearly trying to get him to wake up and get moving. Bobby rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. This was not going to be easy.

The boy was still watching him intently, big eyes just staring at him. Bobby adjusted his baseball cap self-consciously. Dean used to do that as a kid, just stare at you, watch you eat or read or fix cars.

"You, uh…want to keep watch?" Bobby asked. He couldn't handle the staring. Jordan bit his lip, looking nervous. "All you gotta do is tell me if you see anyone out there, okay?" Bobby added quickly. "Can you do that? It'd be a real help."

"Okay," Jordan whispered.

Bobby waited until the boy turned his attention toward the trees. Bobby nodded, satisfied, and cocked his head, trying to hear what Dean was saying. He still couldn't quite catch everything that was being said, but Dean's tone was rapidly deteriorating from tolerant to frustrated.

"You need some help, Dean?" Bobby asked, though he could predict the answer.

"I got it!" Dean snapped back at him. Bobby didn't take offense at the tone, though; he knew better than to take Dean's anger to heart when Sam was in danger.

"Sammy…you ready to move now?"

Pause. "Yeah."

"You're not gonna puke again, are you?"

Bobby winced. Yeah, that definitely sounded like a concussion.

"No."

"You sure?"

"Yes, Dean, I'm sure."

"Great. Can we get out of here then?" Dean sounded understandably frustrated.

"Wow, Dean, what a great idea," Sam responded sarcastically. "Look, I just need to sit down for like one second, okay?"

Pause. "Yeah, we don't really have time for that, Sammy. Your buddy's gonna be back here any second. We're going. Here, I'll help you…you got your balance okay?"

"Uh…"

"Sam!"

"Yeah, I think…I think I'm okay."

"For real this time?"

"Yes, for real."

Two silhouettes finally appeared in Bobby's range of vision, Dean heavily supporting his brother, who seemed barely able to keep his head up on his own. Bobby grimaced.

"Okay, look," Dean said bracingly, "this'll be easy. There's plenty of footholds, and Bobby can help you. Just don't put any weight on that leg."

"Geez, really, Dean? Ya think?"

"Occasionally," Dean snapped.

There was a tense silence. Sam's words slurred slightly when he spoke, another sign of concussion. "I'm sorry, Dean. It's just been a long couple of days, and…"

"Whatever. Let's just get out of here."

Dean gripped Sam's shoulder to help balance him, looking up at Bobby. "You ready?"

Bobby nodded, and shot a glance at Jordan. "We still good, kiddo?"

"Yeah," Jordan said. He was obviously trying to keep his gaze trained on the trees, but he kept stealing glances over his shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of Sam and Dean.

Bobby watched Sam carefully grip a protruding root above his head. He pulled himself up high enough that he could grab another, his face tightening with pain as he went. Bobby cringed as Sam's face came into view. He had a few days worth of scruff darkening his chin and jaw, and a swollen eye that looked very painful. Though, perhaps the oddest detail was the fact that Sam was wearing Dean's favorite leather jacket.

"Stick your foot right there, Sammy. There's a little ledge," Dean said helpfully.

Sam fumbled for the ledge, which Bobby guessed was made more difficult by the fact that his right leg was essentially dead weight, dragging him down. Sam bit his lip and groaned slightly.

"You're almost here," Bobby said gently. He couldn't quite reach Sam yet, but he was getting closer.

Sam closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the dirt of the tunnel.

"Sam? You with me?" Bobby asked in alarm. He couldn't think of too many things that would be worse than Sam passing out in this rather precarious position.

"Yeah," Sam said, then, a little stronger, "yeah, I'm fine."

"Just a little more, and you'll be out of there," Bobby said quickly.

Sam nodded, looking a little gray. He took a deep breath, trying to settle himself. Bobby sighed worriedly. He took the chance to look over his shoulder at the trees. Still no movement, luckily, but things were only going to get harder from here on out.

"You okay, Sammy?" Dean called.

Sam swallowed thickly, and Bobby could see his Adam's apple bob. He set his jaw, found the ledge, and pushed himself up another few inches. It wasn't a lot better, but it was enough. Bobby extended a hand as far as he could reach, and Sam gripped it tightly, his hand making a reassuring clap as it landed in Bobby's.

"Sammy?" Dean said again, sounding distinctly worried.

Bobby and Sam both ignored Dean. Bobby could feel Sam's hand trembling in his grip. "It's alright, son," Bobby said gently. Sam looked up at him, and not for the first time, Bobby wondered if those frighteningly expressive eyes had been inherited from Mary Winchester.

"It's alright," he said again. "You're almost out of there."

Sam nodded, tightened his grip on Bobby's hand. Bobby pulled, gripping Sam's hand and arm, until he was practically single-handedly dragging him out of the tunnel. And the kid had to weigh a freakin' ton, Bobby thought, grunting with exertion. He was getting too old for this kind of stuff. He was gonna throw his back out, if he wasn't careful.

He dragged Sam well free of the tunnel, careful not to jar the kid's leg too much over the uneven ground, and allowed him to lay back to rest. Sam was panting slightly, his face once again tight with pain. The ground was wet and muddy, but Sam was already filthy; a little more mud wouldn't hurt. He patted Sam on the shoulder.

"You okay, Sam?"

Sam nodded without speaking or opening his eyes.

"We'll get you out of here. Don't worry."

Another nod. There was a tug at Bobby's jacket, and he flipped around, startled, slipping slightly in the mud. But it was only Jordan, looking at Sam but speaking to Bobby.

"Is he okay?"

"Yeah," Bobby said. "He's seen worse."

Dean's hand appeared on the edge of the tunnel, and Bobby helped pull him up.

"All right," Dean said with a tone of finality, "we're out of here."

Bobby opened his mouth, then closed it again. There was something very odd, and just a little unsettling, about seeing Dean issue orders like this, like his father. He had to remind himself that this was Dean's hunt, and that meant that Dean was in charge, for better or worse, and Bobby didn't have a right to disagree.

But he did have right to offer an opinion. After all, he'd never claimed to be a member of the Winchester Anti-Demon Army. "Don't you think we oughtta give Sam a chance to rest a little? Just for a minute?"

Dean's gaze swung almost involuntarily to his brother, stretched out in the mud. His mouth twitched slightly, and Bobby could guess at the internal struggle Dean quickly faced: keep Sam comfortable or keep Sam safe?

"No," Dean said after a moment. "He can rest when we're out of here, safe and sound."

Bobby nodded, unsurprised. It was what John would have done.

"Come on, Sammy, time to get out of here," Dean said. Bobby quickly moved to grip Sam's left arm while Dean took the right. There was no way the two of them could carry Sam, but if Sam could stay with it long enough to put at least a little weight on his good leg, they might just make it out of here.

In a surprisingly short amount of time, Sam was on his feet, wincing, gritting his teeth, but on his feet.

"You stay right in front of us, Jordan," Dean commanded gently. "You keep a watch out, okay? You tell me if you see anything out in the trees, got it?"

Jordan nodded intently, taking his job very seriously. Bobby took a deep breath, and the little group took their first shuffling steps forward.

!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!

Sam focused on his feet, and most especially his left foot, and keeping it moving. He could feel Bobby's solid, familiar weight on his left, keeping him going. Dean was on his right, impatient, tense, making sure the injured right leg didn't stiffen too much, didn't hit the ground, forcing them to lose precious moments while Sam stumbled, painfully.

And Sam was glad that they were both there, hard and concrete and real, because it took everything in him just to stay with it enough to keep propelling that foot forward, another step, another motion. It was as if he were watching something important happen from inside the Impala, in winter, with the engine stopped, and frost slowly crowding out his vision, making the world opaque…

"So…" Bobby finally said, breaking Sam out of his tangled thoughts, forcing him back to the present, "how's school going for you?"

He was momentarily confused. This seemed like the world's worst moment to be asking about school.

"It's…good," he responded, dully, trying to think of something intelligent to say.

"You got any good classes?"

Sam brought his head up slightly, stumbled over a twig or a stone, and went back to focusing on his feet.

"You're majoring in political science, right?" Bobby, again, with his deep, gruff, twang.

"Uh," said Sam stupidly. "Yeah." Finally he thought of something to say. "I've got a good professor. Thinks I have a shot at law school."

"Got a job?"

And finally Sam figured it out. Should have figured it out earlier. After all, he'd used the technique more than a few times himself, usually on a half-conscious Dean. Keep 'em talking, keep 'em focused on something, anything to keep 'em awake enough to keep moving.

"Yeah," he answered. "I work at the library." Man, how he loved that library. Books, everywhere, and people who respected books, and no one trying to find death certificates, and burial spots. "And I tutor. Latin." He'd taken a course in Latin, just for fun, found the teacher much too bogged down in irrelevancies like etymology and history and with no respect for pronunciation, the words coming out much too Spanish and not nearly Italian enough: there was no way he could have read out an exorcism properly. After that, Sam had spread the word: anyone who wanted to understand bare-bones theory and quick translation of the language should come to him. And he charged enough to bring in almost as much as his real job.

"You got a girlfriend?" Bobby asked, and Sam decided he should be doing more talking and less thinking if he didn't want Bobby and Dean to worry.

"Not at the moment," he said, thinking about the blonde who liked to study in the red chair in the periodicals section. He wished he had the guts to talk to her, but his words had a tendency to become confused and backwards and awkward around girls, and besides, how could he ever have a real girlfriend when he had Dad and Dean and hunting floating somewhere in his past? How did you explain that to a girl, or even carry on a normal conversation while you were trying to keep your lies straight, fictional memories and half-truths a more tangible part of the conversation than real life?

"Not at the moment? Does that mean you got a prospect?" This, unsurprisingly, from Dean. "Is she hot?"

"Uh," Sam said, thinking, yeah, she's out of my league, but he didn't tell Dean. Dean had a mysterious influence over girls that Sam had never understood or been able to imitate, and he wasn't sure how far the superpower extended. Did Dean have to actually see the girl, or would merely mentioning her cause her to fall for him?

"You get good grades?" Bobby asked when he didn't answer. It couldn't be much more obvious that Bobby was scrambling for questions. Not a surprise. There was no way the people in this part of his life could understand what it meant to go to college. You didn't meet up with too many hunters at a university.

"Yeah, I do," Sam finally said. He wanted to add in that he'd swung a 4.0 every term so far, a veritable miracle by all accounts, given his insane schedule (working thirty hours a week and juggling six classes at a time), but he didn't. Dean and Bobby wouldn't have understood anyway.

There was a silence, and Sam started to let himself fall back into the hazy stupor in his mind, nothing to distract him now except the painful hobble toward safety.

"What's the matter, buddy?" Dean said suddenly. Sam forced his head up, not liking Dean's tone. He was watching Jordan with concern. Sam had become so involved in staying fully conscious that he had almost forgotten the boy was there. But Dean hadn't.

"I…I thought I saw something," Jordan said uncertainly. He looked a lot younger out here in the sunlight, Sam thought, small and skinny for his age, and looking like an orphan from a Dickens novel, with his face covered in dirt.

"What'd you see?" Dean asked.

Sam felt more than heard the presence behind him just before it spoke. "That'd be me," a voice said lazily.

Dean's balancing presence suddenly disappeared, and Sam put all his weight on his good leg to compensate. He and Bobby worked together, Sam hopping on one good leg, to turn around and face the newcomer. Jordan tried to come around for a better view, but Bobby shoved him, forcibly but gently, behind the two of them.

Snow was staring boredly at the gun. "You gonna shoot me, Dean? Because, if you remember rightly, your dear old dad tried, and it didn't work for him."

For some reason, the moment seemed frozen, and details of it burned their way into Sam's memory: the glint of the watery sun on the gun, the weight of Bobby's steadying arm, the whimpering noises Jordan was making behind him, the rich scent of fresh rainwater and pine trees…and somehow, he knew what was going to happen an instant before it did.

"It might not have worked for him," Dean said viciously, flicking off the safety, "but it'll work for me."

"Dean, wait, NO!" Sam shouted, but it was a second too late. The gunshots rang loud in the dense silence of the forest, as Dean emptied half a clip into Snow's chest.

Snow fell to his knees, and then landed with a thud, unceremoniously, face first in the soft mud of the forest floor. Sam could see exit wounds and scarlet blood leaking out, bright against his camouflage jacket.

For a moment, there was no sound, no movement, not even birds chirping or wind moving through the trees. Sam stared in shock at the dead body, still not quite believing…it had all happened so fast, so quickly that he hadn't even had a chance to tell Dean, to remind him…

And then Dean turned around, a slight grin on his face, and Sam knew why. This was his first solo hunt, the first kill where Dean wasn't merely playing backup for Dad.

"Dean…" Sam started, feeling sluggish, like his mind wasn't working right. "You killed him."

"Couldn't be a more deserving guy," Dean said brusquely. "Why'd you try to stop me?"

Sam shook his head slowly, sadly. His mind was muddled, his feelings even more so. He was angry at Dean for acting too quickly, for not waiting to listen to what Sam had to say. But he couldn't deny a satisfaction at seeing Snow no longer able to hurt anyone.

"I don't want to hear any of that crap, Sam," Dean said, sounding tired, as if he could predict what would come next. "I know how you feel about killing people, but he wasn't a person, Sam. He was a monster. A killer."

Sam's mouth opened, then closed, as he tried to find the words. "It's not that, Dean."

"Then what is it?" Dean asked, sounding annoyed.

Sam felt like he could still hear the echo of the gun, though he knew it was in his head, all in his head. Finally, he tried again. "There were others, Dean," he said simply.

Dean's eyes narrowed, and Sam knew he didn't understand. "Others?"

"Don't you remember? The day after we got here, the cops found the woman's body, and then there were two more missing persons cases reported…"

The grin melted, replaced by something Sam had never seen on Dean's face before. Sheer horror. Emotional agony, as he realized what he had done. "An old man," Dean remembered. He paused, swallowed. "And…a little kid."

Sam could hear his heart beat thrumming wildly in his chest. "Yeah." Bobby twitched at this news but didn't say anything.

"And they…weren't in the cave you were in," Dean said slowly.

"No."

"Which means…" Dean started, but Sam could tell he didn't have the heart to finish it.

"He had another cave somewhere, Dean," Sam said. "He must have been keeping them there."

Dean blinked and scrubbed a hand across his face. He shook his head, as if he didn't believe Sam, or maybe thinking if he didn't hear any more it would make it less true. But Dean knew it just as well as Sam did. With as well-hidden as Sam's cave had been, the chances of them finding a second cave out here in the forest would be virtually impossible without Snow to tell them where to look.

Dean's face became painfully blank. It was as if it was just too much to handle, all at once like this, and Dean couldn't take anymore. He slowly put the safety back on and slipped the gun into his waistband before taking his place again at Sam's right.

"Let's go," he said, emotionlessly, as if he hadn't just killed a man, as if doing so hadn't practically guaranteed the deaths of two innocents.

Sam leaned on his brother, and they started walking again, leaving Snow's corpse in the path behind them.

* * *

A/N: Hey everyone! Sorry for the extremely long delay between chapters. I had to move and I also started school this week, so you can imagine how busy I've been! But thanks for all the encouragement to keep posting. Thanks to Von, Jenilee, MDarKspIrIt, calcium77, and Harrigan for your reviews. I owe you guys!


	10. Chapter 9

**Open Secrets**

Chapter 9

"We're almost there," Dean said.

Bobby looked up and realized that Dean was right; he could see the edge of the trees and the parking lot beyond that. It was a good thing. Sam had gone from being quiet but cooperative to virtually unresponsive. Every now and then, his head would come up a little, but for the most part, he was barely conscious.

"Let's stop here for just a second," Dean said. Bobby gratefully helped Dean lower the younger Winchester to the ground, helping him lay back against the trunk of a tree to rest.

"Do we have to stop?" Jordan whined. "We're almost there." He shifted his shoulders impatiently, the bulk of Sam's jacket making the boy look even smaller than he was. As the afternoon faded into early evening, it had gotten cooler, and Dean had insisted that the boy put the khaki jacket back on. Even with the sleeves rolled up several inches, he still looked more like he was wearing a tent than a coat.

Bobby arched his back before sitting down in the dirt. "I'm in favor of a break. Sam must weigh about nine hundred pounds."

Jordan chewed his lower lip fretfully.

"You're anxious to see your parents, aren't you?" Dean asked gently.

Jordan nodded. "I miss them."

Dean ruffled the boy's hair and smiled. "Well, it'll only be a few minutes, okay, kiddo? Then you'll be home."

Jordan did his best to smile back, but his eyes were a little watery.

"Why don't you go keep Sammy company for a minute, okay?"

Dean waited until the boy had plopped down in the dirt next to Sam before he wandered a few feet away. Bobby sighed and stood, guessing that he was meant to follow.

Dean glanced over his shoulder, checking to make sure they were out of earshot but still within sight of Sam, before he started talking.

"Bobby," he started, then paused. He rubbed at his temples, and his back bent slightly, as if the weight of responsibility on his shoulders was literally dragging him down.

"Bobby, what am I gonna do?" he finally quavered.

Bobby was slightly taken aback. Dean had seemed so in control through all of this. He'd handed out orders and made decisions without even hesitating.

"What do you mean?" he finally asked softly.

"I mean, what am I gonna do? About Jordan? About Sammy? About those people, trapped in a cave somewhere? I don't…" Dean's voice trailed off pathetically, and he turned his back. Bobby waited patiently, trying to decide what he should say. Finally, Dean turned back around, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I don't know what to do, Bobby."

Bobby sighed sympathetically. There was an unwanted weight that came with being a hunter that had nothing to do with saving lives. It was the responsibility of making a decision that would change someone's life.

"Do I tell him the truth?" Dean continued. "He's only a kid. But he's already seen things…do I tell his parents? Do I tell him to lie?"

"Well—," Bobby started, but Dean kept going.

"And what do I do about Snow? Do I tell his wife that he was a killer? That he's responsible for all these deaths? Or do I say nothing, and force her to wonder what happened to her husband when he doesn't come home?"

He stopped and took a deep breath. Bobby wondered if now was the time to interject an opinion. He hoped Dean was merely catching his second wind. He'd spent forty years hunting, and he still didn't have a good answer to that question. He doubted that an epiphany would strike in the next thirty seconds.

"And what about Sam?" Dean asked. His voice sounded rough, as if it were painful for him to admit he needed help on something Sam-related.

Bobby frowned. This was not exactly what he had been expecting. "I don't think you need to worry about Sam, Dean. I know it looks bad, but he'll be fine, once he gets some rest and a cast on that leg. This is nothing. Remember that time he got stabbed by that poltergeist?"

Dean visibly shuddered at the memory, and Bobby saw his eyes dart quickly over to his brother. It wasn't a memory Bobby particularly liked to recall either, but he needed Dean to focus on what they were doing here and now, and being overprotective of Sam wasn't going to help matters.

"He'll be fine," Bobby reiterated.

"Yeah," Dean said, and took a deep breath. "Yeah, but that's not what I mean. He's too out of it right now to be his usual annoying self, but as soon as he rests up, he's gonna start asking questions about when we were here before. He always asks too many questions. What do I tell him? If I lie, he'll figure it out. But if I tell him the truth, that Dad wanted him here for bait..." Dean paused, green eyes looking everywhere, anywhere but right at Bobby. "If I tell him the truth, we'll never be a family again."

Dean's voice very nearly broke on the word "family," and Bobby felt a pang of pity. He had to look away from Dean's face; the kid wasn't wearing the mask of false bravado and bad humor that was so much a part of his personality. He looked vulnerable, like a scared ten-year-old, and Bobby suddenly felt a wave of fury that John would put his boys in this position.

But now was not the time to deal with any of this. Sam wasn't exactly on his deathbed, but they needed to get him out of here, and there was also the little matter of the other two missing victims.

Bobby gripped Dean's shoulder. "Son," he said gruffly. He tried to say it the way John would, as a condescending command, the way a general might attract the attention of a lower-ranked soldier. Dean automatically straightened his posture. The mask went back on, and there was suddenly no emotion in his eyes. Bobby hated himself for doing it. "Son," he repeated, a little more gently, "we need to get moving."

Dean nodded once, then again. He sighed. "So what do I tell the kid?"

Bobby wished he could just hand out an order, the way Dean's father might do it. It would save precious minutes. But he wasn't John. "What would you want, Dean?"

Dean swallowed hard. "The truth."

Bobby shrugged. "Then tell him the truth. No point in lying to the kid, with what he saw."

Dean rubbed the back of his head and paced a few steps. Any idiot could see he was downright miserable. Bobby took a hesitant step toward Dean. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do, console him maybe, or pat his shoulder, or offer to take care of things for him, but he was an instant too late.

Dean took that instant to forcibly tamp down his emotions, and then he walked decisively over to Sam and Jordan. Bobby followed, but kept his distance. He still wanted Dean to be in the lead.

"Sammy?" Dean said, crouching down and patting his brother's chest. "How ya doin' there, kiddo?"

Sam gave a low grunt without opening his eyes.

"That good, huh?" Dean muttered. He glanced quickly over his shoulder at Bobby, but his expression was unreadable. Bobby merely moved a step closer, showing Dean that he was there for him.

The young hunter turned his attention back to Sam and Jordan. He took an audible breath and reached out as if to grip Jordan's shoulder, but pulled back at the last minute and curled his hand into a fist at his side.

"So," he said clumsily, "you've had a tough week."

Jordan looked up at Dean. "I just want to go home."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, I know, buddy, but we gotta have a little talk first. I know what you saw back there, and I bet it was pretty scary."

Jordan's head dropped, and he suddenly became very interested in a dead leaf. "Yeah. My mom told me not to go to far into the woods alone. I _swear_ I didn't go very far. I was building a fort," he added, glancing up at Dean.

Dean grinned. "Sammy and I built a fort once, when we were kids. Out of sticks and stuff. It was awesome."

"Mine's pretty awesome too," Jordan said, with just the ghost of a smile. "But I needed more wood, and I guess I went too far…" he paused. "Mom's gonna be mad I didn't listen."

Dean shrugged it off. "She'll be so happy to see you she won't even remember that you didn't listen."

"And then I saw that guy. You know, the bad guy, out in the forest. And he started changing. And I tried to run away, but he saw me, and he caught me…." Jordan shuddered slightly. "Is he dead? For real?"

"Yeah," Dean said. "He's not gonna hurt you."

Jordan nodded. He glanced once at Sam, and then back at Dean. "Are you really a superhero?"

A surprised grin momentarily lit Dean's face. "A superhero?"

"Yeah. Sam…he told me your dad was like a superhero. And he said you were a superhero too. You must be, if you killed that guy."

Dean chuckled softly. "No. Sorry, buddy. I'm no superhero. Getting rid of guys like him…that's just what me and my dad do."

Jordan's face fell. "You mean, he's not the only one?"

Sam shifted slightly, and Dean's gaze flickered over to Sam. But Sam didn't seem to be hurting, at least not worse than usual, and he stilled quickly. Dean's attention returned to Jordan, who was watching him with open fear. "Jordan, the truth is…" Dean began, but he sounded unsure.

Bobby glanced over his shoulder, toward the parking lot. It was starting to get dark, and they didn't really have time for Dean to give what he called his "The Truth is Out There," speech, which usually included references to werewolves, ghosts, and demons. The boy would be inquisitive, Bobby knew, prone to asking questions, and he really wanted to get Sam out of here before it got any harder to see. But it was obvious that this was important to Dean, so Bobby didn't say anything.

"The truth is," Dean started again, and he glanced around, as if expecting to see "the truth" lying around somewhere. He rubbed the back of his head, obviously stalling for time. But then he froze, and a slow grin worked his way across his face. Bobby cocked his head, trying to figure out what on earth the kid could be grinning about at a time like this.

"Here's the truth," Dean started a third time, but this time he sounded sure, with a bit of his old humor in his tone. "My dad and I, we're agents in a secret government organization. Bobby there, he's the director. Well, Bobby's not his real name, obviously. But we all work to hunt down…aliens. And Snow, he was an alien. But he could turn into a human. So see, you saw him turn back into his real self, and he couldn't have that, could he? So he had to kidnap you."

Bobby groaned and put his head in his hand.

"We think he was part of a secret reconnaissance mission from his home planet of, um…Tatooine. Other agents of ours got rid of some of his buddies, so we're pretty sure that the, er, Tatooinians, aren't going to send anymore of their men to Earth. Cuz now they know that the humans can totally take them down."

"Really?" Jordan asked skeptically.

"Yeah. That's the truth. But you can't tell anyone. It's a super-secret organization."

"Isn't Tatooine where Luke Skywalker is from?"

Dean let out a weak chuckle, as if he hadn't been expecting that particular response. "You're a fan. That's…great. But, see…most people don't know that all of the planets in Star Wars are actually names of real planets. They're just not in our solar system, so most people don't know about them. It's classified information."

"Then how did it get into Star Wars?"

Dean groaned, and Bobby tried to suppress a grin. This would teach Dean to come up with such tall tales.

"We…had an information leak," Dean supplied. "There was a spy in the organization, and some data got out."

"A leak?"

"Yeah. And now you gotta promise not to tell anyone what I just told you, or else we'll have another one, and then the organization'll have to fire me."

"What's it called?" Jordan inquired suspiciously.

"Uh," Dean said, clearly scrambling. "Well, it's a secret. Can't let it out. I've already said too much."

"Wow," Jordan whispered, clearly impressed. "You're like…spies or something." Bobby looked up. Surely the kid hadn't bought that load of bull…

"More like the Men in Black, actually," Dean said pensively.

"Cool," Jordan breathed. "Is Sam in it too?"

Unbelievable, Bobby thought. Somehow, Dean had pulled it off. Either that, or the kid had just enough of a case of hero-worship that he hadn't thought the whole thing through just yet.

Dean sighed and stood, his knees cracking from crouching uncomfortably for so long. "Yeah. It's kind of a family business. He just doesn't understand that yet."

"Wow," Jordan said again.

"But you can't tell anyone," Dean cautioned.

"I won't," Jordan said solemnly.

"I'll explain what happened to your parents, but after we leave, you can't even talk to them about it, okay?"

"Okay."

Dean smiled. "Alright. What do you say we get out of here?"

Jordan grinned. "Definitely."

"Sammy, you ready to head for the hospital?"

There was no response. Dean crouched down again and patted Sam's cheek lightly. "Sammy?"

Bobby frowned and knelt down next to Sam. "Sam?" he said sternly.

Dean looked at Bobby worriedly. "Crap. He's totally out."

"He's probably just exhausted," Bobby reasoned.

"Yeah, either that, or his concussion's worse than we thought," Dean countered darkly. He reached down and gripped Sam's arm. Bobby grabbed the other, and between the two of them, managed to get him up off the ground. It took some tricky maneuvering to balance Sam's weight between them, especially since he was about as helpful as a bag of sand, and he also towered a good four inches over both of them.

"Alright, Jordan," Dean grunted. "Lead out."

Bobby was grateful that there was so little distance from their resting place to the edge of the parking lot. It had been difficult to get Sam from the cave to this part of the woods, but at least then he had been making some effort to help them along. Now, it was nearly impossible to move at all.

It took ages to get to the lot, with Dean and Bobby half carrying, half dragging the injured man between them. Fortunately, Dean had parked the Impala close to the edge of the trees. Otherwise, Bobby would have insisted that Dean bring the car to him.

"Give us a hand and open that door," Dean directed, shifting Sam's weight slightly. Jordan instantly obeyed, running forward to open the front passenger door of the Impala as wide as it would go, then stepping back to allow Dean and Bobby through.

As carefully as he could, Bobby helped Dean stuff Sam into the front seat of the Impala. Sam groaned softly as Bobby gently maneuvered his injured leg into the car. When he was finally situated, Bobby closed the door and glanced at Dean. "You're set."

Dean rubbed at his forehead, and then nodded at Jordan. "All right, kiddo, go ahead."

Jordan, though, didn't answer. He was staring with great intensity at the lodge.

"Dad?" he whispered.

Bobby followed his line of sight. There was the silhouette of a man, standing in the diffuse light of the door to the lodge.

Suddenly, Jordan took off at a dead run, but he didn't have far to go. As soon as he caught sight of the boy, the man hurried across the gravel lot. He dropped to a knee and caught Jordan as the boy launched himself into his father's arms. Jordan buried his face in his father's shoulder, crying softly and gripping his shirt as if his life depended on it. Bobby felt like he should look away, as if he were spying on what should have been a private family moment, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He hadn't seen enough happy endings.

Finally, the father stood up, carrying the boy in his arms, and walked toward Dean. His eyes shone in the dim twilight, and he seemed unlikely to let his boy go any time soon.

"You…you found him?"

Dean shrugged, as if it were no big deal.

The man shifted his son's weight and extended a hand. Dean gripped it quickly.

"Thank you," the man said, his voice breaking.

Dean nodded, but didn't say anything.

"If there's anything…anything I can do to repay you…"

Dean shook his head quickly. "No," he said hoarsely. He cleared his throat and tried again. "No. I'm just happy I could help."

The man hugged his son tightly once more, then set him on his feet and ruffled his hair. He exhaled and shook his head, as if he still couldn't quite believe that his son was standing in front of him. "Let's go find Mom, 'kay, bud?"

"Kay," Jordan grinned.

Bobby and Dean watched the boy and his father crunch through the gravel to the lodge's headquarters, watched the door swing shut and a light come on inside. Only then did Dean clear his throat again and pull his car keys out of his pocket.

"I'll get a hold of search and rescue while you're gone," Bobby offered. Dean nodded without looking up. "We'll find them, Dean," Bobby added. He had to give the kid some hope, even if it was false hope. He could almost read Dean's mind, because he was thinking it too. As gratifying as it had been to watch Jordan be reunited with his father, it only made it more painful to imagine the family of the two people still missing, and what their lives would be like if their loved ones were never found.

"And you might want to change your shirt before you get there," Bobby suggested.

Dean glanced down at his shirt and touched the fabric, ripped and blood-stained from where the Skinwalker had slashed him. He seemed momentarily mesmerized by it, but then he took a deep breath and opened the car door with that familiar creak.

Bobby stepped back out of the way, and watched the Impala disappear into the deepening night.

i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!

Dean woke with a start; he was crammed uncomfortably into a hard plastic chair in the waiting room. His elbows were propped on his knees, and his chin had been resting in his hand. He must have dozed off, his chin slipping out of his hand.

He stood stiffly and arched his back, shaking out tight muscles. It had been a long day, what with hiking through the forest, getting beat up by a Skinwalker, and then dragging 180 pounds of Sam all over the place, and he'd gotten hardly any sleep at all the night before. He grabbed his leather jacket off the chair next to him, but he didn't put it on. It was stiff with crusted mud, meaning that it had been annoyingly difficult to get off of Sam, even though Sam had woken up halfway to the hospital. It had also made Sam a sorry sight, shivering slightly in just his muddy, plaid shirt, when Dean pulled up in a fire lane just outside of the hospital. Predictably, it had taken all of thirty seconds for a youngish man in green scrubs to approach the Impala, looking distinctly irritated.

"Buddy, you can't…" he'd started, and then he'd caught sight of Sam, whose pallor was emphasized by the fluorescent light of the parking lot.

"He fell down a cliff," Dean had explained. "Busted his leg, hit his head. Can you help me with him?"

The doctor had disappeared inside to retrieve a gurney, and had reappeared moments later with what Dean felt was a rather unnecessary amount of equipment and personnel. He'd been deluged with questions: how exactly had it happened, how long ago, how had the splint been tied, how long had he been unconscious, were there any other injuries, was it likely that he was dehydrated or suffering from shock or hypothermia, was he on any medication…

Dean was pretty sure he answered all the questions right. He'd operated on autopilot, for the most part. This wasn't exactly the first time he'd brought Sam to the hospital, but it in the past, Dad had always been there to talk to the doctors and handle insurance. All Dean had had to do was watch and worry.

"Tough decision?"

Dean started, and suddenly found himself staring dumbly at a coffee machine. He wondered how long he'd been standing there. A look to his left told him the speaker was a woman dressed in blue scrubs with a white lab coat over it. A silver nametag read "Dr. Andrea Haddock." She looked to be in her mid-forties. She was carrying a clipboard and watching Dean with a slightly amused expression.

"You okay?" she said kindly.

"Yeah," he said. "I was just…"

"Long night?" she guessed.

"Yeah," he said again. He couldn't seem to get his brain to produce a response that contained more than one syllable.

Dr. Haddock nodded sympathetically. "Word to the wise? I'd go for the black. It's about ninety percent caffeine. Trust me, just the smell's enough to keep you up all night."

Dean nodded and pulled a cheap Styrofoam cup from the stack. "Good to know."

"And then after that, you might want to go see your brother," she added.

Dean's head jerked up. "My brother?"

The doctor consulted her clipboard. "You _are_ Mr. Lanier, right? Dr. Day said that…"

"No, yeah, I'm Mr. Lanier," Dean responded quickly. "I just didn't expect them to finish so soon."

The doctor smiled sympathetically. "Well, it wasn't that fast. It's been hours since you brought him in."

Dean smiled wanly. "Must have dozed off. How's he doing?"

"Good, all things considered," she said, leafing through papers. "We were concerned about the severity of his head injury, but his CT scan looks good. You mentioned that he was having difficulty staying conscious and that he had short-term memory loss?"

"Yeah," Dean said. "He kept asking the same questions over and over again."

Dr. Haddock nodded. "That's not that unusual with a concussion. He should be back to his old self in a few days, and since his tests looked good, I'm not too worried. But I'd like to keep him here for observation, just in case."

"But he'll be okay?" Dean asked.

"He just needs some rest."

Dean blew out his breath, relieved. "And his leg?"

"He'll be on crutches for a while, but he'll be fine. By the way, did you splint it?"

Dean swallowed. "We, uh…got separated. He did it himself. By the time I found him, I didn't want to try to mess with it."

"You guys eagle scouts?" the doctor asked lightly.

"No, our dad just really believes in first aid. We do a lot of big game hunting, so he's always wanting to make sure that we're prepared, you know, in case your clumsy little brother takes a nose-dive off an overhang." He ended with a smile he didn't feel.

Dr. Haddock didn't return it. "Mr. Lanier, to tell you the truth, your brother's injuries don't really seem consistent with a fall, even off an overhang. It looks more like someone hit him with something."

Dean didn't respond. He had hoped his story would hold up long enough to avoid questions like these. He hadn't planned on Sam needing to stay in the hospital for a few days.

"Mr. Lanier, if you're honest with me about how your brother's injuries were caused, I can help him better."

Dean sighed, knowing that telling another flat-out lie would only get him in trouble. "Look," he said. "We ran into some people out in the woods. They tried to rob us. They beat up on Sammy a little bit. But we don't want to press charges, and I didn't get a good look at them, so I couldn't even if I wanted to. Sam and I, we just don't want to deal with it. That's why I didn't mention it."

Pursing her lips, the doctor sighed. "Well, that's good to know. I can't say I agree with your decision, but it _is _your decision…I won't say anything."

"Thank you," Dean said.

She smiled. "Well, I guess you better go see your brother. He's probably still awake. But only for a few minutes, okay? He needs his rest."

"Right," Dean nodded. He took the time to fill up his cup with coffee as Dr. Haddock disappeared around a corner. He forced down a gulp of the scalding hot drink. He hoped it would wake him up a little. He had a feeling he was gonna need it.

He took his time getting to Sam's room, half-hoping that his brother would be asleep by the time he got there. He should have known better.

The room was dark, but Sam was propped up, gazing blankly out the rain-splattered window. His broken leg was already in a white cast that came almost to his knee, elevated under a stack of pillows. He had a scratchy blue hospital blanket pulled up to his chin. He looked a little worse for wear; he hadn't shaved, and his face was still an unpleasant medley of black and blue, but at least he was awake and sitting up.

Dean knocked lightly on the open door, not sure if Sam had heard his footsteps.

"Are you seriously staring moodily out a rainy window?" Dean asked incredulously.

"Hey, Dean," Sam said quietly, without looking at his brother.

"Hey, yourself," Dean returned. There was no chair in the small room, so he settled for leaning against the doorjamb. "Feelin' better?"

"Ibuprofen does amazing things," Sam said tonelessly. There was a tired pause. Dean took a small sip of his coffee.

"What about you?" Sam said. "Did you get yourself stitched up?"

"It's on my to-do list," Dean said lightly. Truth be told, those cuts were itching and burning like the devil, but there was no way he was going to admit it.

Somewhere out in the parking lot, a car drove past. The glare of the headlights momentarily lit the room, making Sam's face look washed out and haggard. "Thanks for coming after me. Again."

Dean frowned at his tone. "What do you mean, again?"

Sam shrugged impassively. "Just seems like you spend a lot of time rescuing me, that's all. Ever since we were kids, seems like I'm always the one that trips up and gets caught, and then you and Dad have always had to come and save me or something."

Dean sighed and forced himself not to roll his eyes. Despite the high percentage of caffeine in the coffee he was now finishing off, he didn't think he was nearly awake enough to be having _this_ particular discussion.

"Sam, we've all gotten ourselves in our share of trouble. We all look out for each other. You know that. I mean, you and Dad have had to come after me before. Remember that time with the…" Dean paused, trying to think of something, and very aware that his hesitation wasn't helping his argument at all, "…with the werewolf?"

Sam finally turned his head away from the window and toward Dean. "That was _one_ time, Dean."

"There were others," Dean said unconvincingly.

"Like what?"

Dean groaned. He was too tired for this. "Sam. That's not the point, okay? All I meant was that hunting is a dangerous job. We all screw up sometimes."

"Not anymore," Sam whispered, turning away from Dean again.

Dean knitted his eyebrows in confusion, trying to decode Sam's meaning. "What does that mean?"

Sam shook his head moodily, now staring at the ceiling and sounding a little annoyed that Dean wasn't keeping up with him. "It means I'm not cut out for this life, Dean."

Dean stood up straight and took a step into Sam's room. "What do you mean, you're not cut out for it?"

"It means…I'm done."

"You're done?" Dean echoed.

"I'm done _hunting_," Sam clarified.

Dean scoffed, wondering if this was Sam's idea of a bad joke, because Dean couldn't even begin to imagine the concept of "not hunting." Hunting wasn't a career for Dean, it was part of his identity. It would have been as easy to quit hunting as it would have been to stop being a Winchester, or an American.

"I'm not messing around, Dean!" Sam snapped. "I'm done. For good. I'm going back to school, I'm gonna get my degree, and become a lawyer, and live a normal life."

"Sam…come on, man, I know you had a tough couple of days," Dean said, doing his best to sound reasonable. "And I'm sorry that you got hurt, but that doesn't mean you're not a good hunter."

Sam let his head fall back down onto the pillow. "It's not just that," he said softly. "It's everything. We break the law to do this, Dean. We steal, we lie, we cheat. How is that justified?"

"We do it to save people, Sam," Dean said forcefully.

"Yeah?" Sam said. "We killed a man today."

"He was a Skinwalker. He had it coming."

"He was a human being," Sam countered hotly. "Salting and burning bones, that's one thing. We killed a _person_. That's murder, Dean."

Dean threw up his hands. "What were we supposed to do, turn him over to the cops? He was a killer, and the cops didn't do anything about it. We had to take things into our own hands."

Sam huffed out a humorless laugh. "And that was exactly Snow's reasoning for doing what he did."

"It's different."

"How?" Sam snapped. "Tell me how it's different. He killed criminals, and we killed him."

Dean's mouth worked, but his brain didn't supply any words. "It just is, okay?"

Sam opened his mouth as if he were planning to respond, but then shut it and rolled his eyes. "Fine, whatever. All I'm saying is, it's too much, okay? We shouldn't have to deal with all this. _No one_ should have to deal with this. Look at us, look at how screwed up our family is."

Dean bristled at that. "Dude, I know we've got issues, but we're still a family."

"What _exactly_ is your definition of the word 'family,' Dean?"

"I—," Dean started defensively.

"Look, I wasn't looking for an argument. I just…I'm good at normal, okay?" he sounded as if he were pleading for Dean to agree with him, to tell him it was okay.

"No! Just…no," Dean said, and he hated that his voice sounded just a little whiny. "You can't…not be a hunter, Sam."

"Well, I can't keep living like I am," Sam said. He sounded tired all of the sudden. "I don't have any close friends, Dean. I'm always watching my back. I can never tell anyone the truth." He shook his head. "It's too hard. I can't be both a student and a hunter. And I choose to be a student."

Dean pursed his lips and nodded.

Sam shrugged. "I'm sorry."

Dean jammed his hands in his pockets. "You must be tired, Sam. Get some sleep." He didn't give Sam time for a response. He turned on his heel and marched out. Sam's words played in his head over and over again as his booted feet hit the tile flooring: "I'm done…I'm done…I'm done…."

Sam had made an effort to clarify, done _hunting_, but Dean knew what it meant. He wasn't just done hunting. He was done with that whole side of himself, done with emails and phone calls. Done giving updates on hunts, done with sending leads if he caught them in the paper, done with asking about Bobby and Pastor Jim and Caleb. Done with Dad.

Done with Dean.

i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!

Dean stood bare-chested in front of the mirror in the bathroom, holding up his ruined gray t-shirt and inspecting it carefully. He'd washed it thoroughly and gotten most of the bloodstains out, but there was no way he could repair the rips. He sighed. It had lasted an impressive two months, but now he'd have to replace it again. At least the Skinwalker's claws had managed to avoid ripping the button-up shirt he'd been wearing over it.

He cut the sad remains of the gray tee into squares that he could use for rags, or even bandages if things got desperate. Pleased that he had at least gotten some use out of the trashed shirt, he set aside one of the squares and stuffed the rest into his duffel. Next he gathered his jacket and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and dragged them both onto the bathroom cupboard. He dampened the rag with a few drops of hydrogen peroxide and went to work, gently blotting at the bloodstains on the lining of his jacket. They were pretty set-in, and Dean didn't honestly expect them to come out, but he was going stir-crazy sitting around here with nothing to do, waiting for Bobby to get back from his visit to Snow's wife.

After ten minutes of work with hardly any result, he rinsed the rag and wrung it out, then used it to start scraping the caked mud off the back of the jacket, careful not to let the leather get too wet. He was still bent over the jacket, his neck starting to crick, when he heard the door open. He wasn't worried about the intrusion; he'd given Bobby Sam's key, since Sam obviously wouldn't be using it for the next few days. He shut off the running water and scrubbed once more at a particularly belligerent spot of mud.

"So what'd she say?" he shouted over his shoulder.

Bobby appeared in the doorway looking parentally exasperated. "I told you to stay inside _and rest_."

"I _am_ resting," Dean defended.

"I was thinking something more along the lines of sleeping, not laundry," Bobby admonished.

Dean straightened stiffly and glared at Bobby, hoping the look would communicate the full weight of his wounded manhood at that sentence. "This is _not_ laundry," he said. "I'm fighting a war on mud, here, Bobby."

Bobby shook his head. Dean couldn't help but think that that line would have gotten at least a snort, and maybe even a chuckle, out of Sam. Except that Sam wasn't here.

"How're the stitches?" Bobby asked.

"Annoying the crap out of me," Dean said, giving one final scrub at the persistent mud. He finally gave up. The jacket was so beaten up already that a little extra dirt wouldn't even make a difference. He carelessly tossed the rag on the edge of the sink and flipped the bathroom light off. Bobby moved aside to allow him to pass. "I still don't think—," he started, but his surprise stopped him.

There was an extra person in the room. Michelle Snow was standing in the doorway, clutching a red handbag and gaping at the mess of research Dean and Bobby hadn't bothered to clear up. Her head came up when Dean came into her line of sight.

"You, uh…brought a friend," Dean said uncomfortably. He tossed the jacket onto his duffel bag and glared at Bobby.

"She wants to help with the search," Bobby explained. "She's here to talk to the cops and the search and rescue guys."

"So you brought her _here_?" Dean hissed.

"Dean, she—"

"Did my husband do that?" she interrupted softly.

Both Bobby and Dean turned to look at her. "What?" Dean asked.

"Those…cuts. Did he hurt you?"

Dean wheeled around to face Bobby again. "You _told_ her the truth?" He snatched up a mostly clean t-shirt out of his duffel and gingerly pulled it over his head. The stitches were tugging uncomfortably at the skin, and he winced slightly. By the time he managed to get the shirt over his head, Mrs. Snow's eyes had filled with tears.

"Look, it's not that big of a deal," Dean said apologetically. "The stitches make it look a lot worse than it really is. Bobby here thinks the more times he can stick me with a needle the better."

She nodded and sniffled. "I'm sorry that James hurt you. And your brother."

Dean threw another death glare at Bobby. "So you just, what, told her everything?"

"Please," Mrs. Snow said. "I already knew. Your friend just filled in some gaps for me."

"You already knew?" Dean asked in disbelief.

"Well, I didn't know the details. I didn't know that he was a…a Skinwalker, mostly because I didn't think they were real. But I knew that James was doing something out in the forest. And I eventually realized that the people who had gone missing were all from places James had either lived or worked. I knew he was behind it somehow, I just didn't know how."

"And you stayed with him all these years?" Dean asked sharply. "Even though you knew he was killing people?"

"Dean," Bobby said warningly.

"No, it's a fair question," she said. She looked Dean in the eye. "For one thing, I didn't know for sure. I kept trying to tell myself…that it was a mistake or, that I was just being paranoid. And for another…" she paused and took a deep breath. "Despite his faults, I loved my husband. And he loved me. He was always trying to protect me, even from himself. He was the one who told me I shouldn't go into the forest, that it was too dangerous. And he always supported my efforts to warn people to stay away."

"You don't think that might have been because that way, there were fewer people to screw with his plan?" Dean snapped.

She sighed. "Now, that seems pretty obvious. But at the time, I thought he was just trying to be supportive."

Dean sat down on the edge of his bed, trying not to glare daggers at the woman. He really was sorry that she had to find out her husband had been lying to her, and that he was now dead. But he couldn't help but think that if she had figured it out sooner, more people could have been saved.

Mrs. Snow looked down at her hands. "I can't tell you how sorry I am for his actions, or how much I wish I had worked harder to figure out what he was doing." Her head came up. "But I'm here now. I want to help. There are still two people missing. I'll do whatever I can, tell you whatever you need, if it means it might help you find them."

Dean could feel Bobby's gaze on him. He avoided the older man's eyes and instead looked straight at the Skinwalker's wife. "All right. Start talking."

* * *

A/N: Okay, everyone, bear with me, because I have a lot of people to thank for this chapter. First and foremost has to be my amazing roommates, for taking time out of their busy schedules to edit this chapter for me. They did a great job to help tighten up the plot and correct some errors. Thanks to my roommate's sister for entertaining my questions about medical procedures. Thanks to my mom for the very amusing discussion about how Dean might clean his leather jacket. Thanks to my sister for helping me to come up with some of Dean's dialogue. Thanks to calcium77 and jenilee for the incredibly nice PMs, which convinced me to post a little faster (Calcium, sorry it took me so much longer than I promised). Thanks to Von, Harrigan, Friendly, and Jenilee for your amazing reviews of the last chapter, and to Rozzy07 for your reviews from several previous chapters (sorry I forgot to put you in the list before! seriously, your reviews are so helpful). And thanks to everyone else who's still reading, especially to those of you who favorited or put me on story alert. I appreciate it!


	11. Chapter 10

**Open Secrets**

Chapter 10

Sam stared intently at the screen, holding the remote loosely in his left hand. Head cocked slightly to the right, he listened carefully.

"_El amor no tiene edad, Jorge_," Sarita was saying. "_Porque tu y yo…somos almas gemelas. Para siempre_."

Sam inched the volume up slightly and leaned forward.

"Are you seriously watching Telemundo?" a voice drawled from the doorway.

Sam hurriedly flipped the TV off, but it was too late. Dean sauntered into the room with Sam's backpack over his shoulder. It looked odd. Dean had sworn off backpacks somewhere between sixth and seventh grade.

"It wasn't Telemundo," Sam said defensively. "It was Univision. And my only other choices were Days of Our Lives and Dawson's Creek."

Dean shuddered. "Huh, that's actually a good point."

The backpack dropped with a thud onto the linoleum, and Dean leaned against the wall. "You don't even speak Spanish."

Sam shrugged. "I speak Latin."

"So?" Dean asked warily, as if worried Sam was about to say something too dorky to be allowed.

"So, I can infer a lot of the meaning. Spanish comes from Latin. It's a Romance language."

Dean raised an eyebrow, looking faintly disgusted. "Sam, _this_ is why you have no social life. You don't understand the ladies. Romance is not a language."

"So what is it? A couple of beers and a pickup line?" Sam responded dryly.

Dean beamed. "Now you're finally starting to learn something." He paused while Sam rolled his eyes, then said seriously "How're you feeling?"

"Like I want to get out of here," Sam said. Dean continued staring at him steadily, as if he didn't believe him. "Dean, I'm fine," Sam insisted.

Dean nodded, but didn't say anything. Sam could tell that the purpose of this visit wasn't just to check up on him. If it had been, there would have been more annoying questions, maybe a talk with Sam's doctor, and then the conversation would end with Dean making a lame quip about hot nurses and sponge baths.

"So what are you doing here, Dean?" Sam asked guardedly. He didn't want to reopen a can of worms, but he had to admit, he hadn't expected to see Dean back again so quickly, especially since he had a pretty good excuse to stay away. "Look, about last night…"

Dean waved a hand. "You were out of it. I was out of it. Forget about it."

"Dean—"

"Bobby brought Mrs. Snow over this morning," Dean said quickly, cutting him off.

Sam sighed. It was just like Dean to bring up business instead of talking about what was actually on his mind. "Why'd he do that?" he asked tiredly.

"Said she wanted to help find the last two victims," Dean said. "And she brought these."

He lifted the backpack. Sam was interested now. He sat up and carefully swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Dean looked like he wanted to say something, but he held his tongue. Instead, he unzipped the backpack and passed Sam a worn and bulging manila envelope.

Sam took the envelope and pulled out a stack of hand written notes, photographs, and newspaper clippings. "What is all this stuff?"

Dean shrugged. "His personal notes, I guess. I haven't looked through much of it. I brought it straight over here. Figured I'd put that college education of yours to work."

"Meaning you didn't want to do the all that reading," Sam said, rolling his eyes.

"Whatever," Dean said indifferently, not denying it.

Sam leafed through some of the papers and settled on one that caught his attention. He pulled it out and was surprised to realize it was a large piece of paper folded up. He looked up at Dean and raised an eyebrow.

"It's not a bomb, you can open it," Dean said.

Sam stood, careful not to put weight on his broken leg, and turned to face the bed. He moved the folder to the foot of the bed, out of the way, and unfolded the large piece of paper across the scratchy blue hospital blanket.

He stared at it curiously. "Huh," he said.

Dean stood and looked over Sam's shoulder. "Snow's wife showed us this. We're not sure what it means. Even Snow's wife didn't know."

The paper was hand drawn in red marker with seemingly random spirals that looped across the page. Contrasting straight blue lines crisscrossed the whorls, forming an irregular shape with five sides and odd angles.

Sam scratched the back of his head, thoroughly perplexed. "What's Bobby's theory?"

"That the dude was cracked," Dean said. "He says he's never seen anything quite like it."

"Huh," Sam said again. He stared at it, feeling that if he could just think about it long enough understanding would somehow just come to him.

"What are you thinking?" Dean asked, coming to stand next to Sam.

Sam didn't look away from the strange spiraling designs, trying to pull some sort of meaning out of it. "I don't think it's random."

Dean stepped back and raised an eyebrow. "It looks pretty random to me."

Sam shook his head, pointing at the center of one of the spirals. "I don't know. See how these sort of…" but his voice trailed off.

"What?" Dean asked impatiently.

"I don't know," Sam said, and he really didn't. "Just…something seems…intentional about it."

Dean groaned. "Could you be anymore vague?"

Sam frowned and tore his gaze away from the weird drawing. "So, did you talk to the wife?"

"Yeah. She seemed pretty upset. But she did give us some information. 'Course, it would have been _useful_ if she had thought to give that information to us _before_ her husband went all psycho and kidnapped you."

Sam frowned. "Actually, that's a good question. Why is she all of the sudden volunteering information?"

Dean shrugged. "She said she feels bad for what her husband was doing."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "That doesn't make sense. She could have stopped it beforehand by telling him not to kill people."

"She says she only suspected what he was doing, and didn't know for sure."

Sam sighed in frustration. "Okay, why don't you just start at the beginning and tell me what she told you."

Dean eyed him doubtfully. "Look, I really just came so you could look at that…drawing thing, or whatever it is. You should be resting…"

Sam waved a hand impatiently, shrugging away Dean's concern. "I'm fine. Just fill me in and maybe that'll help me figure out that drawing."

"Sit down at least," Dean said parentally.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean, come on, just tell me." But he did as he was told and carefully climbed back onto the bed.

Looking at least a little satisfied, Dean pulled a small note pad from his pocket. Even from his perch, Sam could see that it was covered in Dean's untidy handwriting. Dean looked over his notes a little, and then started spouting off what he thought were pertinent facts, just like their father had taught them.

"Okay, so Snow's uncle was a professor at the University of Arizona. Anthropology. His specialty is Navajo myth. When James was a kid, he went with his uncle to live on a Navajo reservation for a summer."

"How old was he?" Sam interrupted curiously.

"Uh…I don't remember," Dean admitted. "Like maybe fourteen or fifteen?"

Sam nodded for Dean to continue. "Anyway, so he goes with his uncle to live on a reservation. His uncle was doing research for a book he was working on, but apparently James was forced to go by his father, who felt the kid could learn a thing or two by seeing reservation life first hand."

"I bet he learned a lot more than his father was counting on," Sam observed.

"He must have," Dean said. "I don't know where else he would have learned his Skinwalker skills. His ancestors are all your run of the mill mix of German and English."

"He doesn't have any Navajo blood?" Sam asked, surprised.

"Nope," Dean said. "I guess you don't have to be Native American to go Skinwalker."

"That actually makes sense," Sam said thoughtfully. "All the lore about Skinwalkers goes completely against the Navajo paradigm."

"That's what Bobby said too," Dean affirmed. "He said that it's one of the worst things you can do in the culture."

Sam nodded in agreement. "But Snow obviously picked up some pointers while he was there."

"Or from his uncle's research," Dean suggested. "Maybe both."

"What did he tell his wife about it?"

"All he would say about the trip was that it changed his life, but he wouldn't give her any details."

Sam grinned. "Oh, so you mean he skipped the part where he learned how to turn into animals?"

"Yeah, that's what I mean."

Sam frowned. "But didn't you say that she suspected her husband was up to something?"

"Yeah. Her experience with getting kidnapped by 'Bigfoot' really traumatized her, so for a long time, she didn't try to do any research on it. But as time went on, she started looking into the lives of her fellow victims."

"And?" Sam inquired.

"She found out the same thing I did when I did a little digging. All of the victims, besides her, had some kind of connection to a crime. Most of them had been arrested and then found not guilty. And they were all from places Snow had either lived or worked."

"So why didn't she say anything?" Sam asked angrily. "She could have saved lives."

Dean rubbed his eyes tiredly. "She says it was partly because she wasn't sure it was him and partly because she loved him too much."

Sam frowned. It seemed like a weak reason not to give the cops at least some kind of information, but then, he didn't understand Snow's relationship with his wife. Maybe there was more going on there than what she had been willing to tell Dean.

"Anything else?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," Dean said hesitantly. He frowned and bit his lip.

"What is it?"

Sam could practically read Dean's thoughts. For some reason, his brother really didn't want to share this next bit of information.

Finally, Dean sighed as if resigned, and continued, "We didn't get this from her though. Bobby did a little research last night, you know, prepping for his meeting with her. He found out that Snow was admitted to the hospital about a year ago. He'd been complaining of a pain in his side."

Sam listened carefully, wondering where this might be going. "Okay…"

"So he went to a hospital," Dean continued, "and did an X-ray, and found a bullet lodged in one of his ribs."

Sam closed his eyes, trying to process. "A…bullet?"

"A _silver_ bullet," Dean clarified. "He had it surgically removed."

There was a pause as Sam worked his mind around this information. "There was a _silver bullet_ buried in this guy?"

"Yup."

"But…" Sam trailed off. His mind had exploded with about a million questions, and he didn't know quite where to start. "Okay, first off, how is that possible? He's a Skinwalker. If he'd been shot with a silver bullet, it would have killed him."

"What has Dad always said about shapeshifter lore? Werewolves, shapeshifters, Skinwalkers…how do you kill any of them?"

"Silver bullet to the heart," Sam answered automatically.

Dean grinned. "Exactly. Silver bullet _to the heart_. The bullet was in his ribs. On the right side. No where near his heart."

"So you think someone got him with a silver bullet but missed his heart, so it didn't kill him."

"Exactly," Dean said, sounding almost excited. "It could explain why he hasn't been able to play Senor Vigilante for the past however many years. Maybe the bullet made it so he couldn't transform, but it didn't kill him either. His Skinwalker powers must have helped him heal over the bullet wound, but then it got stuck there, until all these years later he gets it taken out, and then…"

"He could transform again," Sam finished.

"Yahtzee."

It was an interesting idea, Sam thought. He'd been training with various models and makes of guns since he was a kid. He didn't miss. Dean didn't miss. Dad didn't miss. You aimed for the heart and you hit the heart. So he'd never stopped to consider what might happen to any of these shapeshifting creatures if you managed to miss their vulnerable spot. It just wasn't something that happened.

"So a hunter must have shot him and missed," Sam continued his thoughts out loud.

Dean suddenly became very interested in his notes. Sam sighed in frustration and weariness. "It was Dad, wasn't it? When we were here before, he shot it, didn't he?"

"Sam—," Dean started, but broke off, then sighed audibly. "Yeah, it was Dad."

"How could he not finish a job?" Sam asked, trying to keep his tone level.

"Maybe he thought he did. You know, after we left, he didn't hear anything from this area anymore, so maybe he thought he had gotten it."

Sam shook his head. He could feel his temper rising. "And then as soon as he caught wind that there was a Skinwalker running around here again, he sent you here to take it out, didn't he?"

"Sam…," Dean said warningly.

Sam blew out his breath. "That whole story you told me was total crap, wasn't it? You didn't really need me. Not even for bait, like I thought. Dad was just trying to trick me into hunting again, wasn't he?"

"Sam!" Dean said, a little more harshly.

Sam let out a single, mirthless chuckle. "I don't believe this. Every time I think I've found the lowest thing Dad can do, I discover a whole new round of insanely bad parenting. You know, giving your ten-year-old a gun, that's pretty low. Forcing your kid to skip school to plug werewolves is messed up. Kicking your kid out of the house for getting a full ride is just beyond the radar. But this? Even I wouldn't have expected Dad to sink this low."

"That's going too far, Sam," Dean said menacingly. He was always scariest when he got quiet. "You don't know the whole story."

"Yeah?" Sam spat, trying to stop his voice from rising. "Why don't you explain it to me. Cuz as far as I can see, it's the same old story: he's thinking about the same thing he always thinks about, and that's the hunt. He never gave a—"

He was cut off when Dean suddenly whipped his phone from his pocket and put it to his ear. "Yeah?"

Dean must have had the phone on vibrate, because Sam hadn't heard it ring. He fumed silently, glaring at Dean as his brother listened to whoever was on the other end.

"_What?!_" Dean snapped. "How is that even _possible_?"

Sam's anger was still boiling just below the surface, but he felt some of it vanish. Dean sounded livid—livid and worried—and that was never a good combination for his brother.

"Well, you were right there too! You saw him—" Dean said furiously, stopping suddenly. Sam saw his brother's shoulders slump slightly, and some of the fight went out of him. "Yeah," Dean said, staring at his shoes. "No, I'm sorry, I just…yeah."

Dean took a deep breath. "So what's the plan?"

Sam wished his brother would look at him, at least try to communicate what was going on in the conversation.

"Well, obviously," Dean said, in that sarcastic tone his voice involuntarily took on when he was scared or angry. "But…"

Finally, he looked over at Sam, as if considering him. "I'll ask him. I don't know."

Any lingering fury Sam might have felt dissipated further as Dean nodded slowly. He looked like a great weight had been placed on his shoulders, like he couldn't even stand or move because of the burden dragging him down.

"Yeah. I'll be there as soon as I can." Dean slapped the phone shut and stuck it back in his pocket. There was a brief moment of silence as he rubbed at his eyes. Finally, he stood and collected the manila envelope still on Sam's bed and jammed it back into his pack.

"You gonna tell me what that was all about?" Sam asked.

"You done yelling at me?" Dean shot back, sounding simultaneously childish and parental.

"Yeah," Sam said, because he wanted information. Privately, he thought that this conversation was far from over.

"Good," Dean said brusquely, "because I need your help. That was Bobby. There's been another attack. A mauling."

"But…you shot him. I saw it," Sam said in disbelief. "And…it looked like it hit his heart…"

Dean lifted one shoulder. "That's what I thought too."

"Okay…well, we can figure this out on the way there. They wanted me here for another day, but I can go AMA," Sam said. "Just find me some real clothes."

It was a mark of how upset Dean was by Bobby's news that he didn't try to argue. Instead he just nodded. He pushed the pack at Sam. "Do some reading while I get your stuff out of the car. I'll get a hold of a nurse. We're out of here ASAP."

i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!

The closer they got to the lodge the more reckless Dean's driving became. Sam gripped the door handle as tires spun on a particularly sharp turn.

"Dude," Sam said. "Chill. We're not gonna get there any faster by flipping the car."

Dean swore loudly and smacked the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. "Man, how did this happen? I swear, I got him. I know how to hit something in the heart. I never miss!"

Sam frowned, trying to think back to the moment Dean had shot Snow. It was more than a little hazy, considering he had only been half-conscious at the time. "He said that Dad tried to shoot him and it didn't work, right?"

Dean glanced over at his brother warily. "Sam, please, can we have the 'Dad is a jerk and this is why' conversation later?"

"I'm just trying to figure out what happened," Sam snapped defensively. "If you don't want my help, fine. Do it on your own."

The hum of the motor suddenly sounded loud.

"Okay, fine," Dean said. "I'm sorry. What are you thinking?"

"Is there a possibility he could be immune to silver bullets?" Sam asked. "It's the only thing I can think of."

"I've never heard of anything like that," Dean said. "No shapeshifting creature I know of has ever been immune to silver."

Sam threw up his hands. "Then I've got nothing."

"Did you look through his notes at all while I was getting you checked out?"

Sam toyed with the manila envelope. "Yeah, but most of it's just his thoughts. You know, his insane reasoning for kidnapping and torturing people. The only useful thing I found was one entry where he wrote about trying to transform once, a few years ago. He made it part of the way through the transformation, but it was agony for him. He didn't try it again until after he got the bullet removed."

"That's it? That's really it?" Dean asked incredulously.

"Pretty much. There was one other thing where he wrote about why he thought he couldn't do the transformation properly, but that's old news."

Dean took his eyes off the road for a brief moment to glare at Sam. "Old news? What are you talking about?"

It took Sam a moment to realize he hadn't shared this little tidbit with his brother. "When he came the other night, to…to try to get me to confess, he told me that to become a Skinwalker, you have to break a cultural taboo."

"Which we already knew," Dean pointed out. "That's part of Shapeshifter Lore 101."

"Yeah, but he suggested that the stronger the taboo you break, the stronger a Skinwalker you become. He thinks the reason he couldn't make it fully from man to bear was because he couldn't kill his wife. He just killed a regular person rather than someone he was close to."

"How merciful of him," Dean deadpanned.

Sam frowned. "But that doesn't make sense."

"What?"

"Well, he still couldn't make the full transformation."

"And?" Dean said in annoyance.

"Well, twenty years ago, all the people that went missing were just regular guys with criminal records, right? No special connection to the Snows?"

"Yeah? What's your point?"

"Remember the first person that went missing _this_ year? He was a close friend of the Snows _and_ he had a record. So why wasn't Snow able to complete the transformation after he killed someone he was close to?" Sam mused. "It just doesn't really make sense."

Dean stopped the car and put it in park. "We'll worry about that later. Right now, we gotta figure out how that Skinwalker is still alive."

Sam looked up, surprised. He had been so buried in his thoughts that he hadn't even realized that they were back to the lodge. He quickly stuffed the manila envelope back in his backpack, then opened the door and leaned on the frame of the car while Dean retrieved a set of crutches out of the backseat. Sam made sure the crutches were propped under his arms and holding his weight before he performed the tricky maneuver of slamming the heavy door shut without losing his balance.

The place was buzzing with personnel from the police department, search and rescue, and paramedics, along with a group of volunteers who were being given instructions. Someone had set up a canopy in the parking lot to serve as a sort of headquarters; underneath was a cooler full of drinks, several chairs, and a table piled high with maps, papers, and a set of radios. Bobby was standing at the table, pointing something on a map out to one of the volunteers.

"Wow," Sam said, impressed.

Dean looked over his shoulder. He was walking slowly so that Sam could keep up with him. "Yeah, after word got out that Jordan was back safely and had been found in a cave, people started going crazy wanting to find the Roses." At Sam's questioning look, Dean explained. "That's their names. The other two missing people, I mean. It's a grandfather and his grandson."

Hearing their voices behind him, Bobby turned around and nodded at the boys.

"Thanks, Jake," Bobby told the volunteer.

"Sure thing," Jake said. He nodded at Sam and Dean, then took the map over to a group of men with several dogs.

"Good to see you up and around, Sam," Bobby said. "How ya feeling?"

"Fine," Sam shrugged. Winchester Rule #4: you don't complain about pain unless it's life threatening.

Bobby nodded before turning to Dean. "Come look at this."

Sam looked around at the chaos of activity, wondering if he should go talk to the cops or the paramedics first. He wanted to hear first hand what had happened.

"Hey!"

Sam glanced over his shoulder, wondering where the shout had come from. A tall, dark-haired man was making his way across the parking lot, looking infuriated.

"Hey! Mr. Walsh!" the man yelled. Sam finally recognized him as Jason Burke, Jordan's father. It took him another second to remember that Walsh was the name Dean had chosen for their fake identity this time.

"Yeah?" Sam asked, surprised to see the man so angry, but Jason pushed right past him and instead tapped Dean angrily on the shoulder.

"What?" Dean asked irritably, probably expecting Sam. When instead he saw the tall man looming over him, he took a step back. "Burke, right?" Dean asked evenly.

"Yeah. Jordan's dad. I take it you remember me?" his voice was shaking with fury.

"Uh…" Dean started, looking confused. "Yeah. I remember you. I remember you _thanking_ me for saving your son's life."

A man in a baseball cap and jean jacket appeared at Sam's left.

"You're the guy who found that kid, right?" he asked, addressing Dean.

Dean tore his puzzled gaze away from Jordan's father. "Yeah, that's me."

The newcomer looked from Dean to Jason and back, as if he had suddenly felt the tension. "Is there a problem here?"

"Nope," Dean said calmly. "No problem. We're just talking."

The man eyed Dean and Jason warily. "Okay, well…Jackson wants to know if you'd be ready to head out with them in about fifteen minutes."

"Sure," Dean nodded. "I'll be over there in a few."

It couldn't have been much more obvious that the man in the baseball cap had been dismissed. He gave the two men one last searching glance, then shrugged and walked away, hands stuffed into his jeans pockets.

Dean turned back to Jason. "Now, what exactly do you want from me? I risked my life to get your kid back home, and now you're pissed at me for some reason?"

"Oh, yeah, you brought him home," Jason snarled. "And then you filled his head with some crap story about where he'd been all that time. What, you thought getting kidnapped wouldn't be traumatic enough? You had to drive the dagger home?"

Sam caught Bobby's expression over Dean's shoulder. The older man was worried, he could tell, but at the same time, he managed to send out 'I-told-you-so' vibes. Sam raised an eyebrow. "Dean, what exactly did you tell the kid?"

Dean opened his mouth to respond, but he didn't get the chance to utter a word.

"He told my son that you all work for the Men In Black, and that he was captured by an alien from the planet Tatooine," Jason fumed.

Sam blinked. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He stared at Dean. "You told him we worked for the Men In Black?"

"No, I said it was _like_ the Men In Black," Dean said impatiently. "The Men In Black aren't really real."

"Neither are aliens or Tatooine!" Jason snapped.

"Isn't Luke Skywalker from Tatooine?" Sam asked pointlessly.

Dean glared at him. "Seriously? You're not gonna help me out here?"

"Looks like you've got it pretty under control," Sam shrugged.

"Look, this isn't a joke to me," Jason growled. "For some reason, you told my son this BS story, and now he—"

"Did he believe it?" Dean interrupted.

"Of course he believed it! He's a kid, and you're the guy that saved his life! He'd believe you if you told him you could fly and had X-ray vision!"

"Then maybe you should be thanking me instead of blaming me," Dean said, and it sounded like an order. His voice had deepened slightly, taking on the tone he used when trying to intimidate uncooperative victims or witnesses.

But Jason was an irate parent, and Dean's normal tricks didn't seem to be working. "How is him believing your weirdo story a good thing? How long do you honestly think that's going to stick? He's just a kid, and he's had a rough couple of weeks. He'll believe anything. What am I going to do when he starts to realize that there is no such thing as aliens? What do I tell him then?"

"Dean!" somebody shouted. "We need you over here!"

Dean glanced over his shoulder, then turned back to Jason. "You know what, I'm sorry about your son. I'm sorry about what happened to him. I'm even sorry I lied to him, but it was the best I could do under the circumstances."

Jason's face softened slightly. Even he could tell that Dean was telling the truth for once.

Dean gestured at Sam. "My brother here can tell you the truth about what happened to Jordan. And if you want to give him the truth, or if you can come up with a better story, be my guest. But there was no way I was going to put that on him."

Dean didn't wait for Jason to respond. He pulled Sam to the side. "Hold down the fort and do some damage control, will ya? Talk to the paramedics. See what you can figure out. Call me if you find anything."

"Dean!" the person called again.

"Wait, where are you going?" Sam asked.

"They need my help. They've got dogs and stuff, but I'm the only one that's actually been out there."

"What about Bobby?"

"He's staying here to help answer questions and man the radios. I'll be back. Just watch out for yourself, huh?" Dean quickly and discreetly checked to make sure that his gun was in the waistband of his jeans before he went to join the group of volunteers heading out.

Sam watched Dean go, wishing he could go with them. But he knew he would only slow them down. With his crutches it would take ages to navigate the underbrush.

He sighed in defeat and laboriously turned back to face Jason. "So you wanted to know the truth?"

i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!

Four hours later, Sam was folded uncomfortably into a camp chair that was much too small for his lanky frame. It beat the alternative of balancing on the crutches, but only just. Since Sam was pretty useless as a field man, he'd been put in charge of answering the radio and handing it off to whoever was needed. He tried not to think about the fact that he'd been reduced to a search and rescue secretary.

In between ferrying calls, he had gone through all of Snow's notes at least a hundred times. He'd scoured his own research, plus the notes Bobby and Dean had put together as they looked for him. He'd interviewed all of the paramedics, cops, and search and rescue guys that would talk to him. And he had exactly nothing to show for it.

Frustrated, he once again opened the drawing of the weird spirals across his lap. For some reason, he kept coming back to it, but he couldn't pinpoint why. Maybe it was because all of Snow's other madness had some kind of method to it, as insane as his logic might be. But this just looked like scribbles. He rubbed at his forehead. All of this reading and sifting and staring was starting to give him a headache. Or rather, it was building on the residual headache he still had from his concussion.

"Coffee?"

He looked up to see Jordan's mother standing next to him with a Styrofoam cup. He gratefully accepted it and took a sip, hoping the caffeine would dampen his headache a bit. "Jenna, right?" he asked

She nodded.

Thanks," he said.

She nodded again and sat down in the vacant chair next to him. "Listen…I wanted to thank you."

He looked up, surprised. "Thank me?"

"Yeah. My husband told me what you told him…about the Skinwalker?" She shuddered. "Is it really true?"

Sam gave a sympathetic smile. "Yeah. It is. I wish it weren't, trust me, but it is."

She sighed. "I'm not quite sure I'm ready to believe it. It's just a little too much, you know?"

Sam nodded, but didn't say anything.

"And part of it is that I just can't think about Jordan being around such a monster."

"I understand," Sam said, and he meant it. He very much wished he could just believe that the things he hunted weren't out there. But he also knew that he couldn't hide the truth from himself. Sooner or later, this woman would realize that too.

She looked up at him again. "But what I do know for sure is that Jordan doesn't know how to lie. He told me what you did for him."

Sam laughed in surprise. She gave him a strange look that showed his response was clearly not what she had expected. "Sorry," he said. "It's just that I didn't really do anything. He helped me out when I should have been taking care of him."

"You protected him. You watched out for him. He said you even got into a debate over which Ninja Turtle was the coolest, which I hope was your attempt to distract him, and not because you actually think Leonardo would win."

Sam raised and lowered one shoulder. "It was no big deal. I was just doing my job. And Leonardo _would_ win. He has the swords, and he's the best fighter."

Jenna laughed lightly. "Whatever the reason, you can never know how grateful I am to you and your brother for bringing my son back to me. I just wanted to make sure you knew that." She touched his arm and stood. She glanced curiously at the drawing that Sam had set down on the table in front of him. "What's that you're working on?"

He glowered at the looping spirals and sighed. "I wish I knew."

"What do you think these straight lines are supposed to represent? Borders? Or roads maybe?"

Sam looked up at her curiously. "Are you making some kind of sense out of this that I'm not catching on to?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. It looks like a hand-drawn topographical map to me. Is that not what it is?"

Sam picked up the drawing and stared at it. "Do you have a map of this area?" he asked urgently.

"Well, yeah, inside…" she started.

"I need one. As detailed as you can find."

She didn't respond, but turned quickly toward the lodge.

He couldn't quite believe it. It seemed so obvious now that he saw what he was looking for. He'd been trying to see some kind of code or hint into Snow's mind. But was it possible that what he'd really found was a route to the other caves?

"Sam?" the radio crackled. "You there?"

He snatched it up, still poring over what he was now certain was a map. "Yeah?"

"Just so you know, I found that baseball hat you lost here yesterday. You want it back? It's pretty muddy."

Sam frowned and slowly looked up. He couldn't ever remember owning a baseball cap. Dad thought they were a waste of money and Dean thought they ruined his perfect hair, so naturally Sam never had one either. Dean must be trying to tell him something that he didn't want the other people listening on the frequency to hear.

"Uh…is it still in good shape?" Sam asked, trying to figure out what Dean was trying to say.

"It's in about as good of shape as that Taurus you're still carrying around."

Sam frowned. Why was Dean bringing up one of their many handguns? He'd been packing the Beretta earlier…could he be trying to discreetly tell Sam he'd lost it?

"Well, then, yeah, I want it back," Sam said blankly, still not sure what Dean wanted.

"How many rounds in that mag again?"

And then it clicked. Because Dean knew everything about every bit of weaponry they owned, from the handmade sawn-offs to the throwing stars. No way was Dean forgetting something as important as how many rounds were in any given gun's magazine.

"I can't remember off the top of my head," Sam said. "Sorry."

"No worries. Talk to you later."

Sam waited a moment and then flipped the channel on the radio over to 15, the number of rounds in a Taurus Model 92's magazine.

"Dean?"

"Geez, took you long enough to catch on," Dean's voice crackled.

"Maybe you could be a little more clear next time," Sam suggested with a bit of a bite.

"And then what would be the point of the code in the first place?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "What did you find, Dean?"

"Nothing. Snow's body is just gone."

Sam sighed. "That's just great."

"Yeah, pretty much."

"Well, what about—"

"Gotta go, I'll call you in a sec," Dean said quickly, and then the radio dissolved into static.

Sam set his radio back on the table, faintly perplexed. Someone must have come across Dean's path that Dean didn't want eavesdropping on their conversation.

"Here, Sam," Jenna said from behind him. He turned slightly and took the map out of her hands. He compared it quickly with the hand drawn map in his hand. It took him a minute to place things; the hand drawn topography wasn't quite accurate, and the map Jenna had given him was of a much larger area, but he finally managed to find the general area on the official map where his cave had been, and then compare it to the topographical map.

Right on top of that spot was one of the endpoints of the straight lines.

He leaned back, feeling pretty proud of himself.

"What is it?" she asked, looking over his shoulder.

He grinned. "I think I just found our other cave."

"But how—"

"Sam?"

Sam snatched up the radio again. "Dean, listen, I think I—"

"I found something, Sam," Dean interrupted. "I think you and Bobby should come check it out."

Sam frowned. "Um, you know I'm on crutches, right? I'll never make it through those woods."

"Yes, thank you, genius, I got that," Dean snapped. "I'm not that far in. Even you can come and find me, easy. Just follow that trail on the north side of the parking lot, past the lodge for about a half-mile. Contact me on the radio when you're getting close. Bring Bobby. And your baseball cap."

Sam paused. "Dean, is everything okay? You know this channel's safe, right?"

"Just do what I said," Dean growled. "Trust me, it'll be worth it. But make sure you bring Bobby. He needs to see this too."

"Why don't you just tell me what it is?" Sam asked, starting to get annoyed.

"It's just this really pretty tree in the woods," Dean said, and Sam suddenly started to worry that Dean might be possessed. That was the only logical explanation for why Dean Winchester would tell him to gimp out into the woods to see a pretty tree.

"A…tree?" Sam asked. Maybe he'd heard wrong.

"Yeah. The kind of thing you might see in a Disney princess movie."

Sam swallowed thickly. His mouth felt suddenly dry. He coughed and cleared his throat. "Disney princess, huh?" he said weakly.

"Yeah, one of the awesome ones. Bring Bobby."

"Will do. See you soon."

The radio fizzled again, and Sam tried to calm himself down. He needed to get Bobby. And his gun. And he needed to leave, now.

"Disney princess?" Jenna asked in confusion. Sam had almost forgotten she was there. "Huh. Your brother doesn't strike me as the type—"

"He's not," Sam said, mouth dry. "I doubt he could tell you the plot of Cinderella."

"So why…"

"Dad made us pick something that he thought we'd never say in real life. The kind of thing that would never come up in a casual conversation," Sam explained, looking around for Bobby and quickly stuffing research and the two maps in his backpack. "Dean jokingly suggested 'Disney princess' and Dad made us keep it. Dean wanted to switch to 'Funkytown' but Dad thought it was too likely that Dean would say that in normal conversation." Sam stopped, suddenly realizing he was rambling.

Jenna still looked confused. "What are you talking about?"

He stared at her. "It's a code word. It means he's in trouble."

* * *

A/N: Thank you thank you thank you Calcium and Jenilee for your reviews!! You guys are amazing. And thanks to my wicked awesome roommates for hounding me for this chapter, for helping me edit, and for helping me write some of the dialogue. :)

And I have to apologize once again for the dreadfully long break between chapters. All I can say is that school and a social life is sort of killing off all of my free time right now. This would have taken a lot longer for me to get out if it hadn't been for Calcium's encouragement though...thanks! Because of you, I decided to just hurry and finish the chapter instead of breaking it up and taking even longer. :)


	12. Chapter 11

**Open Secrets**

Chapter 11

"He's in trouble?" Jenna asked. She seemed surprised. "But my husband said that you guys had killed the Skinwalker…how could he be in trouble?"

"It's Dean," Sam answered shortly, hoisting the pack over his left shoulder. "Dean can always find trouble."

He made sure the crutches were balanced under his arms before he took off in Bobby's direction, moving as fast as he could given the fact that the loose gravel made every step a balancing act.

Fortunately, Bobby glanced up before Sam had gotten halfway across the parking lot. The older man was consulting with a pair of police officers about the ongoing investigation against Snow. Dean and Bobby had told the cops the basic truth, that Snow was responsible for Jordan's abduction. They had just chosen to leave out the minor detail that he was also capable of growing fangs and claws.

"Sam?" Bobby asked as he approached the younger Winchester. "What are you doing up? I told you to sit down and man the radios."

"Dean just radioed in," Sam explained. "He used a code word. He's in trouble. We gotta go help him."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Bobby said. He gripped Sam's arm to force him to stop. "Slow down. You gotta give me more than that. I'm not going in there blind."

"I don't _have_ any more than that, Bobby," Sam said impatiently, pulling his arm out of Bobby's hand. "We have to go. Now. He could be hurt."

"Well, _you're_ not going anywhere, so you may as well just slow yourself down and tell me exactly what he said so I can go find him."

Sam and Bobby stared each other down, neither breaking eye contact.

"We could do this all day, Sam," Bobby pointed out. "But you're not going. There's no way you can make it through mud and bushes on crutches. All you're doing is wasting time."

Sam bit his lower lip, really not liking what Bobby had to say, but also not coming up with anything close to a legitimate argument in his favor.

"Fine," he snapped, a little more harshly than he intended, but he didn't take it back. He started walking again, and this time Bobby didn't protest.

"So tell me exactly what he said," Bobby prompted.

Sam shook his head slightly, trying to remember Dean's exact words. "Um…he said that he wanted to show us a pretty tree, like the kind you'd find in a 'Disney princess' movie."

"'Disney princess,' huh? I thought Dean had convinced your dad to change it to something else…what was it he wanted?"

Sam glared his best 'this-is-so-not-the-time' look at Bobby. The older hunter cleared his throat and picked up the pace. "What else?"

"He said that you and I both needed to go, and that even I could find him, and that we needed to follow the trail on the north side of the parking lot for about a half-mile."

"Sam, he knows you can't go," Bobby said, anticipating Sam's next words. "He wouldn't have used the code word if someone wasn't listening in. It's obviously a trap, probably an ambush. So of course he had to tell you to go too, even though he knew I'd stop you."

Sam didn't respond. He knew it was true, but that didn't make it any easier to swallow.

"We're sure James Snow is dead, right? Dean got him in the heart?"

Bobby scratched under the brim of his cap. "Yeah. I'm sure. So you're thinking it must be the wife, right?"

"It's the only thing that makes sense. He must have taught her his tricks, and she's been lying to us the whole time."

Bobby nodded. "He'll be fine, Sam. Just take a seat. Put one of those radios on 17 so we can have a private channel. And if Dean calls again, contact me and let me know what he says."

i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!

Dean came to slowly, groggily licking his lips and lifting his head. He had been forced into a kneeling position, and he could feel the dampness of the cold mud through his jeans. A deep, dull pain radiated from his right bicep. He dragged a heavy hand to rub at the spot, but found that it didn't make it very far. Rough nylon rope was bound tightly around his chest, tying one hand in front of him and one hand behind. He frowned, wriggled his hands to try to free them, but struggling only tightened the ropes more, making them bite into his wrists.

"You'll be better off if you just hold still."

Dean couldn't see the speaker, but he recognized the voice instantly. "Did you knock me out?"

Mrs. Snow came around from behind him. "It was just a tranq dart. Low dose. You were only out for maybe fifteen minutes."

Dean grimaced. "Well, isn't that humane of you." He craned his neck painfully and caught a glimpse of the dart, still embedded in his arm. It must have had a lot of force behind it to punch through the leather of his jacket. "Think you could pull it out for me?"

She shook her head but didn't say anything.

"Any chance you'd let me go?" Dean asked, though he already knew the answer.

She sat down on a fallen log and checked her watch nervously. "I'm sorry, but I really don't think I can do that."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Is this because I killed your husband? What if I say I'm sorry?"

She didn't respond, and instead stared at him steadily.

"He was _killing_ people," Dean reminded her. "I had to stop him."

"He was trying to do what he thought was right," Mrs. Snow said.

Dean groaned. "Are you kidding me? You're on board with the crazy psychopath?"

She lowered her head. "Not exactly. I didn't agree with James' methods, but he really was trying to do the right thing. I wish he hadn't killed those people, but at least they were guilty of something. When he told me that he'd been spotted by a little kid…" her voice trailed off. "I tried to get him to let the boy go. But he wouldn't listen. He was obsessed."

"So you see why we had to kill him."

Her head came up, and she stared at Dean. "No. What you did was just as bad as what he was doing. I could have helped him. I could have saved him. Now no one can."

Something about her tone made Dean remember what Sam had said in the car on the way here, that the Snows' friend had been killed. Just how much had she tried to help her husband? "You're a Skinwalker, too. Aren't you?"

Her eyes filled with tears. She swallowed once, nodded, and looked away.

"We thought we were finished here," Dean said regretfully. "We had no reason to guess that there was another Skinwalker running around. And then you went and mauled that guy, and now you've got me here…" He shook his head sadly. He wished he hadn't found out that she was a Skinwalker. It meant that she was supernatural. It meant that he'd have to kill her now. But even though he knew that in his head, when he looked at her he still saw a victim.

She let out a truncated sob. "I wasn't ever going to transform again. I was going to move away from here. I didn't want to hurt anyone else."

"Then why did you?"

Mrs. Snow tucked a strand of hair behind her ear with a shaky hand and took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. "I found James' body. I tried to move him, but he was too heavy. I had to transform to get him out of there, but I haven't done it as often as James did, and when I did he was always with me. It was like I couldn't quite control the wolf part of me…and then I saw that guy in the woods, and I couldn't stop myself…" Another sob shook her body. "And then I knew you guys would figure it out, and that you'd come after me, and now, here I am."

"You could have just left," Dean said. "We might never have found you."

She shook her head and wiped her eyes. Her breath hitched. "No, you would have found me eventually. You found James again, even after all those years. You would have found me."

"We only found James because he was _killing _people," Dean insisted. She didn't respond. Instead, she glanced down at her watch again.

"Your friend will be here soon," she said. "I imagine your brother won't be able to make it on the crutches."

Dean blew out his breath. "It won't matter. Bobby's more than a match for you, even if you transform." It was a bluff, but he doubted that she would know it. She shut her eyes tightly and a tear leaked down her cheek.

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to formulate a plan. She was upset and emotional. Was it possible he could use that? "Mrs. Snow," he finally said, and waited for her to look up at him. "If you leave right now, we'll let you go. We won't come after you. I promise."

She shook her head. "I've killed people."

Dean nodded. She had to have, in order to become a Skinwalker. "Bobby knows this is a trap. If you do not leave right now, he'll take you out before he gets close enough for me to explain." He paused until he was sure that she was listening. "You're going to die."

Her shoulder twitched involuntarily, and she stared down at her hands. Her lower lip trembled, but her voice was clear. "I know."

i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!

The cop looked very annoyed as he stared up at Sam, waving the topographical map under the young man's nose.

"Where did you get this?" the cop asked sternly. Sam couldn't remember his name. He was wearing a thick coat that covered the nametag.

"I told you already, Mrs. Snow gave it to my brother and me because she thought it might help us," Sam said as patiently as he could. His heart leapt as one of the radios crackled with static, but it was only the searchers talking to each other.

"You should have turned it over to the police immediately," the cop reprimanded. "This is evidence, son."

"Well, at the time, I didn't think it was anything, and I didn't think the police would take it seriously anyway."

"The fact of the matter remains, you—"

"Look," Sam said, cutting off the cop with a wave of the hand. "You want to press charges against me or something, fine. I'm sorry I didn't show it to you earlier, but right now we can use it, and you're just wasting time."

Sam swallowed thickly. He had just done a very Dean-like thing in talking to a cop that way, and it didn't feel at all natural.

The cop's face went red, but he snatched the hand-drawn map off the table anyway. Sam had taped a layer of plastic wrap over the top of it and circled with a permanent marker the places where he suspected the other caves were, then marked the same spots on Jenna's printed map.

"Fine," the cop said. "I'll take this over to the search and rescue guys. You better hope we find those people."

Sam waited until the cop was out of earshot. Then he picked up his radio.

"Bobby, you there yet?"

The radio hissed and crackled for a moment. "I'm trying," Bobby grunted. "Your brother didn't give very specific directions, did he?"

"Well, you've been gone at least twenty minutes. You should have found _something_ by now."

"I'm doing my best out here, Sam."

Sam tapped a pattern on the table with the pencil he was holding. He stared down at the map in front of him. "Try going a little more to the west."

"I've already been all over that area. I'm telling you, I must have missed him somewhere. I'm gonna…wait, I think I found something."

Sam stopped the pencil. "Bobby?"

"We sure that Snow's wife is the guilty party?" Bobby said. His voice was a little hard to make out, as he was now whispering.

Sam blinked. "Yeah. Dunno who else it could be."

There was a brief pause. "You willing to bet her life on that?"

Sam swallowed thickly. "You found them."

"Yeah. I'm up a little hill. I can see them, but I don't think they've spotted me."

"Is Dean there?" Sam asked. He'd started tapping the pencil again.

"Yeah, and he looks fine. He's tied up, though."

Sam stuck a hand in his hair, gripped it at the roots. At least Dean was safe. "Do you have a shot?"

There was a pause. "Not from right here. I can if I get a bit closer, but I'll have to go to radio silence or she'll be able to hear me. So…are we sure it's her or not?"

He licked his lips nervously. "Yeah. I'm sure."

i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!

"You want to die," Dean said flatly. Somehow, he hadn't been expecting penitence.

She flinched at his words but didn't look up from her hands. She didn't seem like a killer. She didn't seem manipulative or dangerous in any way. She seemed like a victim, a lonely lost person.

"You got dragged into this," he said. _The same way Dad dragged me into this hunt_, Dean thought. He tried to shake away the thought. He didn't want to compare himself to her. "You aren't the guilty one here. James was, and he's gone now. You could start over." And suddenly he wasn't playing her any more. He really wished she could get away. "You've paid for what you've done," Dean tried again. "Just…leave. Just let me go."

She stood, and tears were running down her face. "I can't do that," she said. "It's not enough to make up for it. I'm sorry that you and your brother had to be a part of this." She took a step toward him. "Listen, if your brother doesn't figure it out, that paper I showed you is a map. Topographical. The last missing victims are in the northernmost cave."

"You still have time," Dean said, though there wasn't much hope behind it.

She gave him a sad smile. "Actually, I think I've been out of time for a while now."

i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!

Bobby turned his radio off and stuck it in an inside pocket of his vest. His revolver had been previously loaded with silver bullets; now he just needed to get close enough that he could be sure to take down the Skinwalker in a single shot.

He could see Dean, tied up and apparently completely unable to move. He could also hear the voices of both Dean and his captor, though he was too far away to hear individual words. If he had to take a guess, it'd be that Dean was probably mouthing off or trying to charm his way out.

Bobby moved as quietly as he could, avoiding patches of brush, until he was edged up against a spruce with a wide trunk that would hide him. He knelt down and peered around the edge of the trunk, trying to make a smaller profile in case she turned around. The Skinwalker's back was to him, and she didn't seem to be particularly on guard. That was all the better for him. He pulled the hammer back slowly, trying to keep the metal from clicking too loud. Then he raised the big revolver, stabilized it with his left hand, and sighted her down the barrel.

He hesitated for a moment. He knew what she really was, but right now she was just a woman, and this felt like murder.

He shook himself and sighed. It didn't matter how he felt. This was his responsibility. His duty.

He checked his aim and gently pulled the trigger.

i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!

She was still smiling sadly when the bullet exited the left side of her chest.

Dean heard the dull thud, the soft grunt as the impact knocked the air out of her. She dropped to her knees, then fell forward. Then she didn't move at all.

He wished he could close his eyes, but he couldn't look away. He was still staring at her when Bobby came down the hill, asking if he was all right.

Dean didn't respond. He wasn't sure he knew the answer.

* * *

A/N: Did you guys all give up on me? Sorry for the majorly long break between posts. I've had a pretty crazy couple of months in the real world. But this is the second to last chapter, and the last one should be up within the next week. Thanks for reading! And Calcium, this chapter's for you. Thanks for all the encouraging PM's, and sorry it took me so much longer to get it up than I said I would. Oh, and thanks also to Spinners0end, nzgirl, and fajitas for betaing. You guys rock!


	13. Chapter 12

**Open Secrets**

Chapter 12

Dean stumbled as he stepped over a fallen log and into the parking lot.

"You okay?" Bobby asked.

"Fine," Dean grunted.

"You sure? Could be a side effect of the tranq…"

"I said I was fine."

Dean looked around the parking lot in order to avoid looking at Bobby. Things seemed to have calmed down a lot since he'd stepped into the woods, but there was a tension humming under the surface. People were clustered around the ambulance, which had its doors thrown open. Dean saw David Williams, the lodge owner, holding Jordan's hand and talking animatedly with a volunteer. Cops were standing around chatting, and a few reporters had shown up, including one local news network with what looked like a live feed.

It didn't take long to spot Sam. Even hunched over the crutches, he was taller than most of the guys around there. He was deep in conversation with a paramedic, but then he held up a hand to quiet the paramedic. It looked like he was talking into a radio.

Dean had to push through the crowd of people to reach his brother, but he was coming up from behind, so Sam didn't seem him at first.

"Copy that," Dean heard Sam say. "I'll tell him." Sam put the radio down and turned back to the paramedic. "They found them. They seem fine, but they're gonna carry them back just in case. There's already a team out there with one stretcher, and Greg just sent the other stretcher that direction. First team'll be back here in about twenty minutes. No major injuries, but you're gonna want to be prepped to deal with some minor cuts and abrasions, plus dehydration and maybe hypothermia. When they're getting close they'll—Dean!"

Sam had turned far enough to catch a glimpse of his brother over his shoulder. Dean waved to show he could wait until Sam was finished, but Sam shook his head.

"What? Dean who?" The paramedic asked, looking perplexed.

"It's…my brother, he—never mind. Uh, they'll call when they're getting close. You need anything else?" Sam asked. He looked fidgety.

"Nah, we're good. Thanks for all the help."

"Great." Sam balanced on his good leg and rotated until he was facing Dean and Bobby.

"I'm gonna go pack up," Bobby said. Dean nodded and watched him go, then turned back to face Sam, who was grinning like an idiot and looking extremely relieved. Dean hoped he wasn't about to do something really embarrassing, like try to hug him or something.

In an effort to stave off any kind of emotional reunion, Dean stuck his hands into his pockets and cleared his throat. "They find those two other people?"

Dean got his answer not from Sam, but from one of the volunteers, who was standing in the bed of a truck with a megaphone. "We'd like to announce that Search and Rescue Technicians have located Charlie Rose, and his grandson Robbie. They're both doing fine. Teams will be returning with both Charlie and Robbie soon. We'd like to thank you all for your help and support in this difficult time."

Dean caught a glimpse of a pair of women in the thick of things, who both instantly broke down into tears and hugged each other.

"I'm gonna take that as a yes," Dean said.

"Yeah, they found 'em," Sam said impatiently. "Dean, are you okay? What happened?"

"Yeah, look, Sam…" he started, but was interrupted when he saw a woman in a business suit carrying a microphone look over in their direction.

"Oh, yes, let's talk to him. He's good-looking, he'll look great on the teaser."

A man with a clipboard followed her gaze and ambled over to the Winchesters. "Lady wants to interview you. Be ready in ten minutes. Try not to say anything stupid."

Dean smiled and waited for the man to return to the female reporter. "And that's our cue to leave. You got anything needs packing up?"

Sam shook his head. "Everything's in my pack, in the car."

"Super. We're outta here in nine minutes." He dug the car keys out of his pocket and tossed them to Sam before stepping quickly toward their room.

"Dean, wait."

Dean turned back around. "Clock's ticking, Sammy."

Sam stared at the ground, kicking at a bit of gravel with his casted foot. "Just wanted to say…I'm glad you're all right."

Dean nodded once. "Me too. Go wait in the car. I'll be back in a few."

i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!

Bobby was shoving a heavy hardbound book into his army-style duffel bag when Dean walked in. The kid looked like he was in a rush, shoving clothes, weapons, and notes haphazardly into two bags. Bobby had heard the announcement too, that the Roses had been found, so there was no longer a reason for Dean to stick around. With as screwed up as this hunt had gotten, Bobby wasn't at all surprised that Dean was in a hurry to see the whole place in his rearview mirror.

"You headed out?" Bobby asked.

Dean looked up, shoving a t-shirt and a shotgun into his bag. "Yeah, before we end up headlining the five o'clock news."

Ah. Reporters. That explained the rush. "Guess I'll see ya around," Bobby said, but he didn't move.

Dean moved over to the small vanity and grabbed the complimentary soap and shampoo, shoving them in his duffel. "Thanks, for, you know…" he paused and swallowed. "Without you, Sam would've...."

Bobby shrugged. "We're family."

"Yeah."

There was a long pause. Bobby could guess at what was bothering Dean. It wasn't much in Bobby's nature to poke around in other people's business, but he felt like Dean needed to hear this.

"It'll be fine, Dean. He'll listen to you."

"I'm not sure he will, Bobby. He's so bitter about this whole thing with Dad," Dean said. He set the duffel on the countertop and zipped it up, then turned to face Bobby. "If he finds out why I brought him here or that it was Dad that sent me here…I don't know if he'll be able to let it go."

"Sam's a little like your dad in that way," Bobby observed carefully. He knew Dean wouldn't take well to any criticism of his family. "Neither one of 'em can just let things go."

"No," Dean said, shaking his head. "This is _my_ fault. I should have never brought him here in the first place."

"Hey," Bobby snapped. "This is not your fault. Your dad's the one who messed up here, Dean, not you."

"Dad was trying to help people," Dean said defensively. "He knew there was something bad going on here, and he couldn't come take care of it himself. What do you want him to do, just leave it alone?"

"No," Bobby said, his voice rising. "But he sent you here blind, Dean. He didn't know what was going on, and he didn't tell you what he did know. And he didn't _have _to send Sam, he could have called me or Caleb or Joshua or Travis or any of his other contacts, and you know it."

"He thought Sam could help!"

"He _thought_ he could use Sam as _bait_," Bobby corrected.

"Maybe that wasn't his only thought," Dean said. He sounded a little desperate. "Maybe he just wanted to get Sam back into the family business. Maybe he just wanted us to be able to work together again."

Bobby's face softened. He knew how much family meant to Dean. But there were two Winchester boys involved in this, and Bobby knew he had to look out for both of them. "Did you listen to Sam talk about school? When we were bringing him back?"

Dean frowned. "He was half-conscious," he muttered.

"He loves it there, Dean," Bobby said gently. "He's happy."

There was a pause, and then Dean cleared his throat and adjusted the strap of his duffel. "There's a reporter looking for me. I better head out before she tracks me down."

Bobby nodded. "Right." He'd said what he needed to say, and it was in Dean's nature to change the subject rather than acknowledge it. Trying to add to it wouldn't do any good.

"Guess I'll see you around," Dean said.

_Sooner rather than later,_ Bobby thought. He had some choice words for John too, and they were the sort of words that would have a stronger effect in person. And possibly with a shotgun in his hands.

i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!

With some careful maneuvering, Dean managed to avoid the reporter and stuff his gear into the trunk. He looked out at the crowd still gathered around the ambulance, but then he caught sight of the reporter lady, and quickly opened his door and slid into the driver's seat.

"Looks like we don't have time to say good-bye," Sam said. Dean guessed he was watching the lodge-owner with his family.

"It's better that way, Sammy," Dean said. He turned the key in the ignition and pulled out of the parking lot slowly, hoping not to draw attention to himself. The reporter seemed more interested in what was going on with the crowd than the departure of the black car.

Sam pulled his prescription of painkillers out of his pocket and dry-swallowed one of the little pills.

"You okay?" Dean asked gruffly. He still wasn't thrilled that Sam had chosen to check himself out of the hospital early.

"Yeah, I just need some rest, probably."

"You want an icepack for your face? That black eye giving you trouble still?"

Sam winced and touched his face. "I almost forgot about it." He groaned. "My roommates are gonna freak when I get back there with a busted leg and a black eye."

Dean grinned and watched as Sam tried to stretch out a little in the car. "You wanna pick the music?" Dean asked.

Sam turned and looked suspiciously at his older brother. Dean winced inwardly. Uh-oh. He'd gone too far with the music. That had been a little too nice for him. He held his breath, hoping Sam wouldn't call him out on it, and finally relaxed when Sam just leaned forward and pulled the battered shoebox out from under the passenger seat.

"Rush okay?" Sam said, rummaging through the box. "_Moving Pictures _or _Hold Your Fire_?"

Dean shrugged, and Sam slipped the cassette into the player. The familiar riffs of "Force Ten" felt comfortable, and Dean relaxed a little. At least the job was done. At least they were both alive.

Then Sam started shifting in his seat and playing with a loose thread in his jacket, both of which were symptoms suggesting that he was about to start up a Serious Conversation. And Dean wasn't quite ready for that.

"Those pills'll knock you out, Sammy," he said before his brother had a chance to open his mouth. "We got four hours til we get to Palo Alto. I'll wake you up when we're getting close."

Sam looked over at him, as if he wanted to say something, but Dean knew he wouldn't. He wouldn't want to pick a fight, not when they still had hours to go and he was a little loopy from the drugs.

Instead, Sam slouched down into the seat, leaning his head against the spot where the seat met the window. With his hands jammed into the pocket of his hoodie, he looked almost comfortable. He was out in less than ten minutes, leaving Dean alone with Rush and the road.

And, unfortunately, his thoughts. Because Palo Alto was coming up pretty fast, and Sam wouldn't stay asleep forever. And Dean needed to figure out what he was going to say.

As far as options went, there was always the truth. That Dad had heard about the disappearances in this area. That he couldn't go himself because of his broken leg. _So far so good._ But then the next part was the part where Dad had neglected to mention the fact that they'd been here before, and, oh yeah, Dad's theory about the monster-of-the-week being able to track Sam. _Bait._

So. The truth definitely wouldn't work. So maybe he should settle with a kernel of the truth. Something like, _Caleb didn't send me, Dad did. And he wanted me to bring you so you wouldn't get out of shape. But I didn't know we'd been here as kids, and neither of us knew we were hunting a psychotic Skinwalker. So it was all a big misunderstanding._

Like Sam would buy any of that. Maybe the truth was overrated in this situation. Maybe he should stick with the original lie, that he'd gotten the assignment from Caleb. Maybe it was just a coincidence that this wasn't the first time Snow had attacked them and that he'd recognized them and their car and remembered their dad and wanted to exact some revenge.

Yeah, 'cuz Sam wouldn't think that was at all suspicious.

The tape ended, and Dean rewound it rather than bothering to flip it over.

Maybe he could convince Sam that it was all a mistake, that they hadn't even been here before at all.

Maybe he could just tell Sam that he didn't want to talk about it.

Maybe Sam would just forgive him and Dad without asking for an explanation at all.

Dean groaned. His ideas were getting lamer by the minute, and if he was honest with himself, that was because there was just no good way to handle this particular ball of angst. If he told Sam the truth, his younger brother would have even more reason to hate their father, and they might never become a family again.

If he lied to him, Sam would figure it out, and probably sooner rather than later, and then Sam would feel betrayed and would blame the lie on Dad, and then they'd never become a family again.

Either way, Sam wasn't likely to ever forgive Dad this latest round of bad parenthood. Sam had a way of remembering every little thing Dad had done. If Dean ever did anything wrong, Sam would forgive him, even if it took him a few weeks of holding a grudge. But Dad…Sam wasn't likely to forgive Dad if he had any possibility of holding on to a fight.

Sam shifted in his sleep, moving his head so his neck quirked at an awkward angle. Despite his dark thoughts, Dean grinned to himself. Something about this moment felt like home, him behind the wheel, Sam asleep in the passenger seat, the low rumble of the engine, Geddy Lee's distinctive vocalizations. He wished he could preserve it, keep it safe for after their Serious Conversation.

He turned up the volume a little, hoping to get his mind away from thinking about ways to convince Sam not to hate him, wanting to just enjoy the moment.

_I find no absolution_

_In my rational point of view_

_Maybe some things are instinctive_

_But there's one thing you could do_

_You could try to understand me_

_I could try to understand you._

_You could try to understand me_

_I could try to understand you._

The smile slipped from Dean's face and he quickly ejected the tape, exchanging it for _Zeppelin IV_. He'd never much liked the song "Open Secrets" anyway.

i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!

"Sammy?"

Sam brought up a hand to rub at tired eyes and sat up slowly, groaning. Somehow, he'd ended up on a very awkward angle, and his neck and back twinged as he stretched.

He looked around, realizing that the Impala was at a dead stop with the engine off. Dean had parked right outside his apartment complex.

"We there already?" Sam asked in surprise.

"Told you those pills would knock you out," Dean said. He glanced at his watch. He looked nervous. "Listen, thanks for coming with me, Sam."

Sam shrugged. "Yeah. It was…fun."

Dean quirked an eyebrow, and Sam grinned. "Well, you know what I mean."

"Maybe next time we're in the area, we'll stop by," Dean said. "We could grab a beer or something. Hang out without all the running and screaming and getting kidnapped."

Sam frowned. "Dean, about that…"

"What?" Dean said warily.

"We gotta talk about it," Sam said. "This whole hunt got totally screwed up."

There was a pause. Dean picked at a hole in his jeans, but didn't say anything.

"It wasn't Caleb, was it, Dean? Dad sent you here, didn't he."

Dean didn't respond. He turned his head, staring out into the shadows.

Sam sighed. "You know, I get why he would send you out here to come and get me, because he just can't stand to have me out of his little army. I get why you'd do it, too, because you always follow his orders." Sam paused and blew out his breath. Dean was still looking away from him. "But I don't get why he didn't bother to come out here with you. You'd think he would've wanted to give me a piece of his mind. Again."

"His leg really is broken, Sammy," Dean muttered, his breath fogging up the window. "He couldn't have done the job."

"So instead of calling someone who's actually a hunter, he sends you to trick me into going, even though I'm in school."

"Sam, it's not like that," Dean said. His voice had deepened a bit, which told Sam that his brother was starting to get angry. Well, that was fine.

"You're probably right," Sam said, "since he doesn't seem to care that I'm getting an education. But you would think that he'd be nervous about sending me as backup, seeing as how I haven't been on a hunt in two years."

"You did fine, Sam," Dean said.

Sam stared at his brother incredulously. "Dean, I let myself get captured. I ended up almost getting you _and_ Bobby killed, and now I gotta hobble around campus on crutches."

"So you're a little rusty," Dean said, shrugging.

But still, Dean had a point. Dad was a crappy parent, but a genius soldier. He wouldn't have sent Sam into the field if he'd had doubts about his capabilities. He must have really thought Sam could handle the job.

"Maybe he's punishing me," Sam said softly.

Dean snorted in disbelief. "How d'you figure that?"

"You know, like when we were kids, and we didn't get chores done on time or whatever, he'd make us run laps? Maybe he's punishing me for ditching the family business and going to a top-notch school. Trying to become an individual."

Sam paused, watching Dean. He expected his brother to defend Dad, the way he always had when they were kids, but Dean said nothing. Sam's lips formed into a thin line. "Well, that's fine. You tell him from me, I want out of his little army. I'm done hunting, for good."

Sam unlatched the door; it opened with a familiar squeak that brought back a rush of memories.

"Sam, wait," Dean commanded.

"Sorry, Dean," Sam said. He carefully extricated himself from the car, and pulled open the back door to grab his backpack and crutches. "It's not you, really. I don't blame you." He settled the crutches under his arms and closed the back door. A step put him in front of the still open front passenger door, and he leaned down on the crutches so he could see his brother. "We can still be brothers, you know," he said. "You can still stop by here sometimes. Emails, phone calls, whatever. You could…"

"What?" Dean asked.

Sam blew out his breath. "You could even come live here, if you ever got sick of Dad and his crap."

"Sam…" Dean said. Somehow he managed to make just his name sound full of both regret and chastisement.

Sam nodded, looking at the ground. "Figured you'd say that." He looked back up. "Either way, from now on I don't want to hear from Dad, or about Dad, and definitely not about the hunt."

"_I_ came for you!" Dean shouted suddenly.

The night air seemed to ring with sudden silence.

"What?" Sam asked hoarsely.

"It wasn't Dad that sent me, I came all by myself!" Dean said. "I know you think I'm a good little soldier, can't do anything but follow orders, but this one I did without him, Sam."

Sam blinked, trying to process. His chest felt like it was filling up with a slow, cold pressure. "You did…_what_?"

"Caleb didn't clue me to the hunt, I read about it in Dad's journal. He didn't put any personal details in there, which is why I didn't know we hadn't been there before. And he really is stuck in a motel room with a busted leg, so it's not like he could come after me. I needed backup, and you were close."

"I don't believe you."

That seemed to throw Dean out of his train of thought. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, I literally don't believe you," Sam repeated. "I've seen you do a lot of stupid things, Dean. But I've only seen you disobey Dad a couple of times, and never for something like this."

A muscle jumped in Dean's jaw.

"I'll give you one chance to tell the truth," Sam said. It seemed like there was a cold weight in the pit of his stomach. "Whatever you say, I'll believe you. I'm your brother. Don't lie to me, Dean."

There was a long pause. A chilly night wind whipped Sam's hair, but he didn't even feel it.

"Dean?"

His brother didn't meet his eyes. "It's been a long couple of years. You know? Just me and Dad, on the road all the time…it gets lonely, man. I was hoping…" He glanced quickly at Sam, then turned his eyes forward again. "I'm sorry for how things turned out. It's not what I was planning."

Sam felt cold anger steal through him. He could feel it, physically, in his hands and feet, up his spine. He wondered if this was what betrayal felt like. "What exactly _were_ you planning, Dean?"

Dean sounded desperate. "We're a family, Sam." As if that explained everything.

"Not anymore, we're not," Sam responded. He hooked his backpack over his shoulder and slammed the car door closed, turning his back on Dean.

* * *

A/N: Lyrics are from Rush's "Open Secrets," if you didn't catch on. :) And thanks to everyone for the reviews! And thanks to fajitas, spinners0end, and nzgirl for the beta. :)


	14. Epilogue

**Open Secrets**

Epilogue

The door slammed open, causing Sam to jump in his desk chair. He sighed when he realized it was just Zach and Logan. "Have you guys ever heard of knocking?"

"It's my room too," Zach pointed out. He yanked open a dresser drawer and pulled out a polo shirt, which he slipped over the white t-shirt he was wearing.

"Come on, man, you gotta see this," Logan said.

Sam turned back to his computer. "Sorry, guys, I'm trying to catch up."

Zach moved aside a hamper half-full of dirty clothes to stare into a mirror on the wall. He ran his hands through his short dark hair, smoothing down places where it was sticking up, then turned to face Sam. "Okay, I get your whole 'studiousness' thing, but you missed like two days two _weeks_ ago."

"I have to pull an A," Sam said. "I gotta get this done." Sam went back to typing up his notes.

"Okay, that's it," Zach said exasperatedly. "Logan?"

Strong hands grabbed Sam's shoulders and pulled him bodily out of his chair.

"Hey! What are you guys doing?" Sam flailed an arm, but Logan was almost as tall as him, and Zach was strong enough to manhandle him despite his being shorter by a few inches.

"You're coming with us," Logan grunted as they pulled Sam out into the hallway. They let him go, and Sam stood staring at his roommates.

"Are you guys _insane_?"

"Dude, we haven't seen you since you got back. You've been at the library or shut up in your room since then," Zach said. He paused. "Logan, grab his crutches."

He waited until Logan had disappeared back into the room Sam and Zach shared before he said quietly, "I don't know what happened with you and your brother, Sam, and I don't think it's any of my business, so I'm not gonna ask."

Sam stared at the ground. He'd been trying to avoid thinking about that for two straight weeks now.

"But you gotta snap out of it, man. Stop working all the time and come have some fun, you know? Or call your brother and fix things. One way or the other."

Sam stuck his hands in his pockets and wrapped his hand around his phone. Dean had called almost constantly for more than a week. He'd left seventeen voice messages, none of which Sam had listened to. The calls had started to slow down after that, and now, Sam hadn't gotten any calls since yesterday. Dean had finally given up.

Logan reappeared with the crutches. "Are you coming?"

Zach looked at Sam questioningly.

Sam rolled his eyes. "You really think I need to stop working?"

Logan smirked. "If you stopped working all-together, we'd start to worry that you were abducted by pod-people or something. Just chill a little, that's all we're saying."

"You've been seriously boring lately," Zach added.

Sam sighed and stuck the crutches under his arms. "Fine. Where are we going."

Logan grinned, leading the way toward the door. "There is this _way_ hot blonde moving in three doors over, so we're gonna go help her move in."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "And you thought I'd be helpful with that?" He used the crutch in his right hand to tap the cast on his foot.

"Sam, we're doing you a favor," Zach said, as if it pained him. "She won't have anything to do but talk to you while we do the heavy lifting." He paused, put a hand on Sam's shoulder, and put on a face of mock seriousness. "You can thank me later."

Sam shoved the hand off his shoulder, grinning.

Logan paused with his hand on the doorknob. "But you should know, I already called dibs on asking her out."

Sam rolled his eyes, and Zach snorted. "Don't worry, Logan. It takes Sam at least six months to get up the nerve to ask a girl out."

Sam chose to ignore the comment and followed his friends to the outdoor hallway of their floor. Logan and Zach bolted down the cement stairs while Sam stayed behind, looking over the wrought-iron railing. Sure enough, there was the blonde, struggling to unload a cardboard box out of the back of an SUV. Zach and Logan quickly took charge, taking the box from her and asking which apartment was hers. Sam snorted. As if they didn't know.

She followed them up the staircase, carrying a tall Rubbermaid container that hid her face from Sam's view.

"This is our other roommate, Sam," Logan said as they passed him. "He's faking a busted leg so he doesn't have to help."

The girl let Logan and Zach go past her. "It's the one with the door open," she said. She set the Rubbermaid down, giving Sam his first view of her face.

He tried to keep himself from staring, but _holy crap_, she was the girl from the library! The one that always studied in the social sciences section, where he worked. He'd been trying to work up the nerve to talk to her for, what, a semester and a half now? It was like karma was rewarding him for swearing off hunting.

She stuck out a hand. "Nice to meet you, Sam. I'm Jessica Moore."

Sam tried to unscramble his brain. What was he doing? Oh yeah. "I'm Sam," he said, sticking his own hand out.

Jessica grinned. "Yeah, I got that."

Sam swallowed and tried to think of something intelligent to say. "Nice day," he finally settled on. He was glad it was a nice day, because it meant she was wearing jean shorts and a fitted navy t-shirt and a cute little smile like she was trying to figure Sam out.

She was beautiful, sure. But more importantly, she was…real. She wasn't putting on a show for anyone: she wore hardly any makeup, and her long blonde hair hadn't been styled, it just flowed in golden waves down her back. She was just being herself.

Sam wondered what that would be like.

He'd been at school for a year and a half now, and he'd never let himself get close to anyone. It just wasn't smart when you were a part time hunter, when your gun-wielding brother might show up at anytime, hoping for help digging up a grave.

But Dean wasn't going to be showing up here, not anytime soon. Maybe never again. It felt like a punch to the gut, thinking about never seeing Dean again, but Sam still wasn't quite ready to think about just letting it all go, either.

Besides, wasn't it about time that Sam did something for himself? To make _himself_ happy?

"So how'd you break your leg?" she asked as Logan and Zach came out of her apartment and headed back down to the parking lot for another load.

"Oh, uh…" Sam started. "Hunting accident." Yeah, good, keep the information to a minimum.

"Was that fun? Besides the getting hurt part," she added, laughing at her own slip.

Sam shrugged. "It was all right."

"I've never been hunting," she said. "Don't think I'd have the guts to kill something, you know? Even if it is just an animal."

"Yeah," Sam said. _Me neither. Never again._

_Fin_

_

* * *

_A/N: Thanks so much to anyone who made it to the end. :) This was my first multi-chapter fic and it was pretty intense. If you actually made it all the way through the story, I'd really appreciate some feedback, positive or negative. If you're too nice to leave negative feedback in a review, you can send me a PM too. Thanks again to everyone who's been reading and to everyone who's reviewed. :)


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